


The Oracle of Birds

by RyuuzaKochou



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, But they really are out to get him, Carter wants to know WTF is going on, Drama, Finch is Paranoid, Fusco just wants it to stop, He is a BAMF genius though, M/M, Reese in the world's most badass romantic, Reese is vulnerable but a total boss, Romance, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Sexual Content, Spirit Animals bring people together, boys and their feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyuuzaKochou/pseuds/RyuuzaKochou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch has more than one reason to be a private person; especially considering how New York treats it's Guides. He is a bird that flies under the radar...hell, he built the radar. But there is a Sentinel in New York just as invisible as him, who pings in all the right (and so very, very wrong) ways.</p><p>How can you hide from someone who can track you anywhere you go?</p><p>More than that, why would anyone not want to connect to the other half of their soul?</p><p>In which there are good guys, bad guys, we don't know which guys, sentient Machines, coming back from soul level devastation, falling in love despite everything, Finch being a genius but still a bit thick and Reese basically being the kind of man who thinks trussed up bad guys totally count as a dozen red roses and a bow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One: Finding

**Author's Note:**

> Wow; it has been a long, long drought. But the rains have finally fallen, and I'm back with the Sentinels and Guides again. I do so love their play ground.

The Oracle of Birds

Chapter One: Finding

 

_Subject: Unknown_

_Date: Deleted_

_Location: Deleted_

_The boy who is nameless stared at the bottle solemnly. He rather wished it hadn’t come to this but he’d done the calculations and the cost/benefit analyses and, while he didn’t know them by these names yet and also despite the fact he hadn’t reached double digits in years, he was already very, very good at them._

_The testers would be here tomorrow, though most of the other children didn’t know. He, however, quite undeniably and almost frighteningly bright, actually listened when adults talked over his head as if he wasn’t there._

_He didn’t ask questions; he wasn’t that type. He sat down quietly and turned the words over in his head, adding them up and fitting them into other things he already knew. Like; if you passed the test, you might be taken away from your family. A couple of the other kids talked about siblings that way, hushed and grieving; sometimes full of arrogance, being special at one remove. If you passed the test you might end up in the army or some such and the boy didn’t really like the idea of being in the army. He didn’t like loud noises or crowds much. He liked quiet, where you could hear yourself think and figure stuff out. If you passed the test you seemed to be respected for it but it seemed to his simple world view you were respected the way history was respected – at a distance, behind impenetrable walls. And also, lots of other people told you what to do and the boy reserved an almost adult sized hatred for that sort of thing._

_There was nothing else for it. He opened the ipecac and downed it. A long time after he was grateful he’d done it. Just not immediately._

\----------------------------------------------------------

_Date: [........./..........] 2012_

_Location: Sub Cam 00009883_

_Why New York?_ he thought through a haze of alcohol. This was the last place he should really try to hide. Survivors guilt, perhaps? For having such a good day in Mexico when he could have been stopping madmen from stealing planes? The last place he saw Jessica....happy?

He knew why, of course. A lot of Sentinels and Guides with no fixed territory were being pulled here by base instinct after the Towers fell; any that didn’t join – or re-join - the military, that is. There had been a huge space to fill after September 11, because the Sentinel and Guide ranks had been decimated to a catastrophic level not seen in recorded history.

It was a fact that there were a handful on Ground Zero but the biggest losses came after; Sentinels were nature’s own first responders, getting hit with dust and mercury and all sorts of hazards while diving into the wreckage for survivors, any survivors which in turn lead to injuries, respiratory complaints, permanent damage and mostly deaths. Even if they made it past all that some had just dropped, literally dropped. Their Guides had dropped, the anguish and pain and terror proving far too much even for the strongest and the most disciplined. Their agonised empathic projections were felt not just across America, but across the planet. 

All told, a good ninety percent of Sentinel and Guides in New York and died or been wounded by the tragedy. Even more than a decade after the event the numbers still weren’t what they once were; most of the Sentinels and Guides pulled active had joined the military to hunt the threat down at the source. The military had been pleased, but the city of New York hadn’t benefitted much. Now any unattached Sentinel or Guide – even some attached ones – found themselves drawn to New York city as nature tried to fill the vacuum.

The man currently called John Reese took another swig from the bottle and let the alcohol burn down his throat. Even with his heightened sense of touch, it still wasn’t enough to drown out the pain and guilt though. Nothing may be enough. Ever since....well, ever since, the world had turned into a monochrome of greys and a din of silences. The alcohol only occasionally let him sleep past the memories in his head.

His spirit guide, a sleek caracal was with him constantly now. Some days he was grateful for the company but other days he hated it, hated the thing. It always seemed to be there, reminding him of his failures, of his duties.

Well, he’d spent the better part of his life up to his eyeballs in duty and what damn bit of good had it done? Had he changed anything? Was there any reward? He couldn’t even _get there in time_. He could hear heartbeats miles distant, he could taste a molecule of poison in a lake of water, he could see to the horizon, hell, he could _smell_ to the horizon, he could touch....

He threw the bottle in one violent move. What good was it? What good was any of it?

His caracal leapt up as the bottle smashed and it jaws snapped at something in the air.

The anger vanished as quickly as it had sparked. He was too numb to even maintain that. Reese hunkered down in his filthy clothes against his filthy walls and tried to sleep.

A chirp interrupted his search for respite. He wearily opened his eyes to see his spirit guide sitting patiently in front of him, it’s feline face slightly warped by the struggling bundle it gripped loosely in it’s mouth.

Grunting, Reese reached shaking hands up to free the fluttering thing and about to comment to the caracal that _since when does it eat_ , when his brain – his trained, tortured, never sleeping brain – gave a kick.

His caracal wasn’t _real_ , not in the physical sense. It wouldn’t be able to catch a real bird.

Surprise granting him momentary clarity, he looked down at the brown bundle that squirmed upright in his hands. He thought for one moment that his caracal had hurt it but the wing that hung down, broken and scruffy, looked to be an old injury.

“Where did you come from?” he rasped in wonder, gently stroking the tiny head with the finger.

John Reese looked up and the world was suddenly full of colour that had been lost, sounds that had been muffled.

Something wrapped tight around his chest, almost too tight to breathe around, and pulled _hard_. It yanked him to his feet where he staggered unsteadily for a moment before his legs picked a direction and started to stride.

He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, but by the time Reese had hit the underground he was running flat out, bird in hand.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

If he was the type to curse, he would have cursed. He had miscalculated badly and it wasn’t the kind of mistake easily corrected. He tripped and stumbled again, fiery agony shooting up his bad leg, but the hand hauling him along the dank tunnel was not concerned with his comfort. The throbbing bruises he’d already gained from half falling down the ladder and tripping half a dozen times on the rough ballast testified to it.

He shook himself to clear his head. He’d gotten too close to the meeting between Diane Hansen and, as it turned out, her posse of corrupt cops. He’d called the police to the location when it became clear she was meeting with her potential murderers and could only hope they would be there in time. He had needed to get close enough for his camera to get a good shot of the meet though, so if worst came to worst at least he could get justice for her. Consolation prizes, he thought bitterly, made up a lot of his work.

Well, worst had come from a different angle. Hansen was perpetrator not victim. It could have turned out to be one of the easier ones to solve had he not been spotted. And now....

“Here,” Stills, the most corrupt of corrupt cops. “I’m not dragging your crippled ass any further. Jesus Christ, who the hell came up with your neighbourhood watch anyway?” He chuckled darkly. “Okay Mister Interested Third Party, take a good look around,” Stills shone his flashlight obligingly. “This is the last place you’re gonna see living. Hell won’t come as much of a shock then. Subways, you gotta love ‘em. They leave messy corpses but a clean kills. Any last words?”

Worth a try. “Point zero two percent, Detective Stills,” he replied levelly. He’d faced down cut throats on every level of wealth and business, he could fake calm with the best of them.

“What?”came the answering scowl.

“That’s how much of a cut you really get, Detective,” the tone was heavy with patience. “Hansen is extremely well paid for her services. She gets at least a forty two percent share. That’s over six figures in real money, Detective Stills. Have you ever gotten close to six figures? No? You think you have robbed the bank but you are thanking patrons for pennies.”

“What would you know about it?”

“I know everything about you, detective. Jason Stills, 47. Married three times, divorced three times. Four children from various partners, one illegitimate whose mother you had sent away to prison for demanding child support. Your mother left when you were ten, your father was then and is now a chronic alcoholic. Once upon a time you rose up the ranks quite well and were a crack shot until a street fight damaged nerves in your arm. You never did get your marksmanship back. Your psychological profiles indicate you struggle with impulsiveness and would not be a suitable candidate for senior roles; nonetheless, you were appointed captain in your precinct until the rank was stripped for drinking on the job, you...”

“How’n the hell do you know all that?”

A shrug. “Information is my business, detective.”

“Yeah?” the cold barrel was pressed to his temple. “Well now your business is a bullet.”

He opened his mouth and shut it again. He thought about offering more money, a bribe perhaps, but Stills wouldn’t accept it from him, he could tell. He was just some anonymous nosy parker.

He had tried to use his empathy to get inside the man’s head but it had been too long since he had called on those gifts, too long. His control was too shaky to get more than miasma of greed and resentment, of brittle pride that had drowned a conscience, swirling in that mind like a swarm of wasps. He had drawn back behind his too-thick mental shield to avoid getting lost.

He looked down at his hands instead. They looked twig like in the bad light. There never seemed to be time for anything now. He felt like eating even less times that he remembered to eat and it had clearly been taking a toll. On a good day he might manage a few hours of sleep but he couldn’t remember when the last good day was.

He’d tried to juggle the demands of the Machine and the demands of his privacy and had barely made any headway with either. He’d failed.

 _I tried_ he protested to himself; but his business side retorted _that does not change the fact that you failed_. He was forced to his knees, one screeching in pain and bent awkwardly.

Maybe someone would find the video and do the right thing with it, he hoped as he heard the nasty click of the hammer cock. Maybe the gun would misfire. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

But if he didn’t come back, the Machine would dutifully report numbers from the list to an empty room, with no one there to see or even care.

 _I should have gotten help_ , he thought with perfect hindsight.

Something growled. He blinked in surprise from where he kneeled.

 Then there was an explosion of gunfire, the crack of it echoing up the tunnel.

He was shoved aside, ears ringing and the tunnel boomed with the sounds of flesh hitting flesh, grunts and hisses of pain. The torch had been dropped to the ground, and the corona showed only feet – two sets of them.

There was an odd, muffled sound and Stills howled; it sounded, for example, like a man whose arm had been twisted past breaking point.

There was a flash and a bang as the gun went off again. He could hear the deadly skips as the bullet ricocheted off the walls.

Scrambling to find his feet so fast that his coat tore, the unexpectedly rescued man hobbled as far as he could away from the savage fight and into the pitch darkness of the tunnel. He wasn’t being callous; he knew that they only thing he could do for his rescuer is not get in the way and not get hit with a stray bullet.

The noises dimmed as he haltingly made his way through the dark. An eternity of minutes passed and he shambled as fast as he could, his body protesting every step. Soon he could hear nothing but his own uneven gait and harsh breath.

It took him another two eternities to reach light; he found a subway platform and (thank goodness) this one has steps up onto the platform proper. The locked gate at the end gave him a moments trouble before he hobbled into relative safety.

His checked his cell phone but it was still useless. He then beelined painfully for the payphones at one end.

He only managed two digits of 9-1-1 before a hand reached over him to hang up. He spun around.

The youth sneered at him. “What’re you lookin’at?”

“What do you want?” he replied impatiently, though he noticed with a sinking feeling more youths were lining up behind the sneerer and they all shared a predatory gleam in their eyes.

The first youth mimed a shot to the heart. “Oooh, that’s rude. That was rude, wasn’t it?” His pack all nodded. “A faggot like you should learn some manners.”He eyed the high-end cell phone that was still clutched in his prey’s hand. “He should learn to share.”

The youth shoved him against the payphone while the others crowded in, but the hand that snatched for the cell phone never made it.

A larger hand folded around it and the teen gave a yell of surprise and pain as the grip locked.

The now twice rescued man looked over at his rescuer. Tall, was the first impression. Broad shouldered too, though the rest of his physique was hard to pin down past his ragged drapery. The face was largely concealed by unkempt dark hair and a shaggy beard, but no random derelict wanderer had ever had such an intense expression of burning rage in their eyes.

There was a livid, bleeding graze on one of the newcomer’s temples, to which the rescued man stared. He _couldn’t_ be the man in the tunnels....could he?

The teen was white with pain, and tried to throw a punch with his free hand.

That turned out to be a mistake.

\------------------------------------------------------

End Chapter One

 


	2. Chapter Two: Losing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks is Misaki_kaito for pointing out the error I made in Reese's name; in my head it was spelled with a C. I really should check my sources better.
> 
> Thanks so much to all the reviewers. I'm so glad you enjoy my little tale.

The Oracle of Birds

Chapter Two: Losing

 

_Location: [Censored]_

_Time: 113:54 from INC: 12ABMHSW00077895362471_

He tapped feverishly at his keyboards with still shaking hands, trying to ignore his throbbing knee which - among other troubles - had swelled to roughly the size of a coconut. His coat, now soiled and ragged, was still wrapped around him like some feeble armour.

After too many mis-types and deletions he forced himself to stop regardless of the insistent demands of his sparking brain. It was difficult – his mind was a perfect storm full of scouring winds and electricity, a heaving mass of power and numbers – but he had learned to fight it’s demands when his body simply couldn’t keep up.

He squeezed his eyes shut and searched for the calm in the centre. He’d been doing that for years, long before his life’s work; though after the ... accident he had become a grand master. He’d had to. He’d needed a clear mind, not the fog of painkillers. He measured his breaths inch by inch, refusing to waver from his goal until his heart settled and his nerves were less shredded.  He knew what was happening wasn’t just adrenaline; though it accounted for a share. It wasn’t just his near-death experience either. The loss of security, the powerlessness of one who has always been in control of his destiny; none of this accounted for the way his world now shook.

If he closed his eyes now he could see the image of that bloodied and unkempt face, fierce and undiminished by ill fortune, tearing into his attackers.

Objectively, the man had clearly been trained in combat though he suspected that a certain amount of talent had always been there. He was not some berserker who relied on sheer chaos to get his opponents down. Every move had been calculated to tactical advantage. Plus the fact that he was taking on four opponents, one armed with a gun, after he had dispatched another opponent in the pitch black of the tunnel (also armed, and better trained) didn’t seem to concern him at all.

On a more subjective note, he had been mesmerising to watch. Like liquid lightning, or maybe some jungle predator; all smooth grace and ruthless bloodstained beauty.

The rescuer had skittered along his senses shockingly, like a blow from a cattle prod. He had buried his...other talents; buried them deep, deep in a grave that he was supposed to have been buried in himself. Most of the time that was the only way he could function at all. His mind wasn’t letting him push this away this time. It wasn’t letting him bury it.

Everything he could find on the man, which was quite a lot, seemed to indicate he wasn’t a Sentinel. Sentinel and Guide records were impeccable in a way his meticulous mind applauded and his rescuer didn’t even appear in passing on them. But his own...less physical analysis told him something else.

Without thinking about it he pulled up the most recent reports logged in the precinct nearest the subway station. He stared at the words, _stared_ at them until his mind felt like it would burst into flames.

He knew he should be sensible; he should disappear, become invisible like he was so good at doing and this would blow over. But some other part of him, some muffled but yelling part, needed to know. He needed to know if he was right, no matter the consequences. Because if there were such things as Sentinels off the books, then he needed to account for it in the Machine. The Machine had to be accurate, infallible. Otherwise it was all for nothing.

He looked over at the wall, full of accusing photographs that glared and judged him, that had found him wanting.

He stared at the police logs again.

He rose unsteadily to his feet, and grimaced. He would order a car and his guards; that way he could retrieve his surveillance video of Hansen and her corrupt police friends as well. At least then the night would show a little profit.

\---------------------------------------------------

Detective Joss Carter eyed the line of ragged youths and did nothing to hide her disdain. Her surprise was internal, though, and big. They were a sorry bunch made even sorrier with a multitude of swellings, cuts and bruises. Shaking her head, she left them to squirm in silence for a while.

In the interrogation room was a whole other can of worms. Technically he should be down in the tombs after his arraignment but just looking at him she could see why the arresting officers had chosen to separate him from the general population. Every inch of him was ragged, dishevelled and dirty, hands steepled over his jacket like he was protecting something but that didn’t diminish one single inch the presence he commanded. Even had she not been in the service she would have recognised the honed and distilled combat readiness. This one was a hunter, a predator prepared at any moment to leave a swathe of death in his wake and the only thing stopping him – the _only_ thing – was that he hadn’t decided to do so. Not yet.

“Well, you’ve certainly handed me an interesting debacle,” Carter began. Keep it light, her faultless instincts warned her. Keep it light, no blame, no lectures. And _don’t back him into a corner_. “I don’t suppose you feel like making my life easier and giving me a name to work with...?”

She sensed rather than saw the slight curl of lip under the beard. She knew in an instant, looking into those sharp eyes, that the man was neither as drunk nor as derelict as he appeared. “Names,” came the low, but pleasant, rasp. “Seems like you only have a name these days is when you’re in trouble. Am I in trouble, Detective?”

Carter shrugged easily. “Give me a name, and we’ll find out.”

That was a definite smirk. “Jesus.”

Carter snorted in amusement. “Funny place for you to end up. Okay then. You want to tell me what happened tonight? I got a bunch of boys in my precinct all beat to hell and while it might actually improve their manners a little, we tend to frown on that kind of etiquette lesson in this city. You know that? Are you from around here?”she watched his face, but couldn’t get much of a reaction from it. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. I do know that you haven’t always been here. Ex-military, right? Special forces if the way you fight is any indicator.”

She watched for the slightest change in expression but nothing moved. That was an answer in itself.

“Yeah, I had some friends in the service. They had a little trouble adjusting when they got home. You got anyone we can call for you to post your bail?”

That got a reaction, even if it was just a slight eye flicker. Carter felt a pang of pity. She guessed the answer was an absolute no and regardless of what else the guy had done, that was just sad.

“Well...” Carter’s eyes narrowed as the man’s head twitched to the side as if he’d heard something, his eyes going past her to the closed room door. There was a slight murmur from outside the room, which suddenly turned into a din of crashes and swearing.

Carter went for the door, unlocked it and peered out. There, at the end of the corridor, a couple of beat cops were struggling to restrain a huge guy who was nearly too big for the cuffs. A couple of other officers had jumped into the scrum and some desks had been swept clear of monitors as the melee` wavered back and forth. She made sure the other officers had the situation under control before turning back to her suspect.

“Now me,” he drawled pleasantly. “I would have zip tied him at the elbows too. That would have thrown his balance off completely.”

Carter blinked. “You’re a Sentinel!”

A shrug.

Oh for the love of... “You could have mentioned that a little earlier. Sentinels get a little leeway in these circumstances.” Her tone didn’t indicate whether she was totally for or totally against this double standard. “You can have a Sentinel rep here. Do you want me to call the Centre?”

Another shrug.

Helpful. “How did you end up on the streets like this? There’s a lot of support groups for Sentinels coming out of the military. And I know there’s an iron clad veterans program.”

Yet another shrug. “If you want one, I guess.” Was the cryptic response.

Carter was genuinely taken aback. She opened her mouth to demand a better answer when a knock interrupted her. “Yes?”

“Sorry, Detective,” one of the desk sergeants poked his head in. “Someone has posted this guy’s bail.”

It was a fraction – no, it was a fraction of a fraction of a second’s response, but Carter caught it. For a nanosecond the man called Jesus was just as surprised as she was.

He recovered quickly, and held out his shacked hands as far as the table ring would let them go. “Will that be all?”

Carter stared at him a second longer, willing him to give up some of his mystique but reached for her keys in any case. “Word to the wise? Try not to get involved in any more altercations, okay? The Sentinel thing is only good for one get-out-of-jail card. And just...you know, visit the Centre at least.”

He nodded amicably. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

Call it a detective’s instinct, Carter sighed as she motioned him towards the exit, but somehow she doubted it.

\--------------------------------------------------

John Reese, as he was currently known, stepped out of the precinct into the early evening air and took a deep breath. His head turned around to the nondescript but very familiar man who leaned against the door of a black SUV, keeping weight off his throbbing leg.

Reese’s eyes narrowed as his enhanced hearing caught the heartbeats of two people, men, one behind the wheel of the car and another couched behind it, ready with a gun. The gun oil said that it was a good quality weapon, the rasp of the clothing on the guard was high end. Private security.

And then, of course, there was him...

Reese stalked towards the car, unconcerned about the two guards. He had already planned out thr...no, four ways to avoid potential gunfire. No other heartbeats in the immediate area indicated he was being observed from a snipers nest, so tactically speaking he was in pretty good odds.

Even if he’s had a platoon of snipers looking down their scopes looking down on him, he still would have gone towards the car. With that one slightly too fast heartbeat sweet in his ear, he would have done much more. Already his senses were on board, cataloguing every detail.

“Guide,” Reese couldn’t have stopped the low croon if he’d tried.

There was a moment where the heartbeat skipped, but then it levelled out again as if it never happened. The Guide had clearly learned advanced biofeedback.

“You’re mistaken, Mr Reese,” the smaller man replied smoothly. “I’m just a man who believes in paying his debts. Your fines have been paid, your rather colourful record had been wiped from the system. You are, in fact, free to go.”

Reese quirked an eyebrow. “Who are you? And I am not mistaken.” There was that almost-skip again. Reese grinned and paced closer.

“What I am is none of your concern, Mr Reese,” the reply was icy.

Reese could feel the guards shift into ready positions. Far from being intimidated, the Sentinel was actually really amused. “You don’t honestly think Frick and Frack can take me down, do you?”

“They don’t need to take you down, just slow you down,” the Guide unconcernedly brushed lint off one of his sleeves. “I wouldn’t test their patience. I pay them a great deal not to have very much.”

As annoying as these obstacles were, Reese was intrigued; and he hadn’t been anything like that in a long time. It was refreshing. “Neither do I, Guide.” He used the title just to annoy the man. “Why wipe my slate clean? And also,” he interrupted the bespectacled man’s retort. “What you are, every part of you, is every bit my concern.” He basked in the discomfited look he got in reply.

  “I told you; I’m a man who pays his debts. That is all you will ever know about me, Mr Reese, so I suggest you give up that line of inquiry.”

Reese heard the gun sliding out of the holster of the driver as he moved forward again. He grinned, and reached into his bedraggled coat’s inner pocket. “So...this isn’t yours?” he asked with mock-coyness, as the little broken winged spectral bird uncurled in his palm. It had squirmed and wriggled in there throughout his arrest and arraignment, but of course no one else could actually see it.

Reese moved; he dove forward, rolled and came swinging; the letter opener he had neatly stolen from the desk sergeant spun from one hand and left a divot as it skipped over the roof of the vehicle, forcing the man rising from behind it to jerk sideways as it clipped his ear.

His other hand, now a fist, smashed through the driver’s side window like it was paper, hand going in and closing around the other guards wrist, pushing the gun off target before it fired; he yanked the wrist and hand out and sideways slamming it with bone crunching force against the jagged edged window frame. The gun came loose, he caught it spun it as his momentum carried him forward and he hit the Guide’s body, free arm just able to catch them both before he crushed the Guide between his body and the SUV’s. The gun was thrust behind the Guide’s head towards the uninjured guard in time to freeze him before he could re-aim his weapon.

Reese could actually feel his Guide’s heartbeat against his bones. The reaction when he had seen his spirit animal had been too visceral for even the best biofeedback technique to cover. Though he did recover fast; even now physically in greater danger his heartbeat had levelled out like a metronome. The Guide was very, very good. Reese smirked into the dilating pupils until he realized that while the Guide’s eyes tracked him, his head didn’t tilt upwards like it should under these circumstances. He scanned the smaller man for any signs of injury or pain, but got inconclusive results.

“You really should be paying them a lot less,” he murmured right in the Guide’s ear, just to hear his breath hitch. Reese was enjoying this immensely. “Who are you, Finch Guide?”

“It’s none of your concern,” the Guide replied, just as level as before.

“You can’t even tell me, Finch?” his lips were very nearly brushing the Guide’s ear but his eyes bored straight at the guard in his gun sights, who was shifting on his feet in a way Reese didn’t like. Move, his dark eyes promised, and die.

“I’m a very private person, Mr Reese.”

The taser wasn’t a powerful one; with a Sentinel’s super tactile sensory scale it didn’t need to be. One quick jab and it felt like every single one of his cells were exploding. He dropped silently to his knees in complete and total white agony.

He didn’t recover until the Guide had been hustled into the vehicle and it was screeching into the night.

Reese hacked out a few jagged breaths, grinding his teeth in frustration. And then he smiled.

And after so long in numbness waiting for death, John Reese suddenly felt totally and completely alive. His hurts still hurt, his memories were still guilt ridden, but he finally, finally felt like he was moving again.

This would be a challenge. John Reese thrived on challenges.

\---------------------------------------

“Are you okay, boss?” Frick asked, one hand cupped around his bleeding ear, while his compatriot steered one handed through the streets.

His spirit guide... _his..._ spirit guide had sought out a...

“I’m fine,” the man called Finch snapped, and then relaxed his tone slightly. It wasn’t their fault their employer had been completely and irredeemably stupid. “Fine. Drop me off at the usual place. Arrange to have the car shipped out of state and sold. And send me the medical bills as well.”Inside, Finch seethed at himself. Two fatal errors in one night? That was a record and not one he planned to make into a streak. He was aghast at himself. His body was thrumming with it.

Or that’s what he told himself.

\----------------------------------------------------

End Chapter Two

 


	3. Chapter Three: Seeking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks muchly to all my reviewers and kudo'sers :)  
> Keep in mind this will be one of my slow builds...

The Oracle of Birds

Chapter Three: Seeking

 

The torch that had been dropped in their fight still lit up the tunnel like a beacon. Reese would have to be quick; at least one train had to have passed and seen it, which meant rail workers would eventually walk the tracks to check it out.

His opponent was still there too, gently cooling when Reese had left his body. He’d been too busy to take care of it going in pursuit of ‘Finch’. Reese absentmindedly rubbed the burn mark the taser had left on his ribs. He’d be feeling it for a while.

He turned the torch off and waited for the afterimages to fade from his too-sensitive eyes. He then scented the dank air until he found it; the place with his Guide’s scent lingered the most strongly. Working by feel he freed the scrap of coat from the rail bolt it had caught on. He breathed deep the scent of it. Yes, definitely him. It was a clean smell with an edge of old books woven in with plastics and silicones. There was a slightly sour, fear based note in there as well which made the Sentinels temper rumble like waking volcano.

He moved over to his Guide’s would-be killer, now a threat to exactly no one. He went through pockets in the way of a pragmatic man to whom corpses inspire no particular dread. As far as Reese was concerned the man had gotten off light.

Too light, as it turned out when his fingers unerring mapped out the police badge. His temper erupted like the end of city states. A cop had been tried to kill his...

Well this was a problem he had to solve quickly. Bad enough the Guide wouldn’t accept his protection, he may not even be protected by the everyday authorities either. That was unacceptable.

He searched until he found the gun, pocketed wallets, ID’s, spare ammo, keys, miscellanea and, with a bit of grunting, heaved the slightly stiffening body over one shoulder none too soon. He could hear echoes growing in the tunnels as transit workers scoured the lines. Leaving the torch with it’s night vision destroying light pointed towards the incoming authorities, Reese made his way through the tunnels, following the surprisingly keen scent of old books and silicone.

An hour passed relatively uneventfully. Full night had some advantages so he was able to get the body out of the tunnels at the same place the once-living man had entered with the Guide at gunpoint. He followed the scent trail to the car the ex-killer had driven to get his victim here and, oh, how he was prepared to cherish the officer if only because he was so utterly lazy. The car was no more than a dozen steps from the nondescript service door.

Keys in hand, Reese popped the trunk and the aroma of his guide wafted out of the space, churning the molten heat of his rage again. The scent was so fresh and unsullied he could practically see the painful lines where his Guide had curled as best his body could; here he actually smelled real pain. He wished the cop was alive so the Sentinel in him could spend a long, exquisite session demonstrating why that sort of thing should never happen to a Guide – any Guide, let alone his Guide. He stuffed what was left of the man into the trunk instead.

He had been thinking of his Guide as he tracked him back to his point of origin and had come to the conclusion that his Guide’s wounds weren’t recent, not if the spirit guide bird had been anything to go by. He hadn’t been aware that spirit animals reflected their companions so closely but he admittedly did not know much about them at all. The CIA hadn’t been keen on educating him other than on what they needed his senses for.

The Guide, Reese closed his eyes and saw that slightly hollow,  
intelligent face, the Guide had been wounded. But it was deeper than physical, much deeper. He stood as if being cut down or stabbed in the back weren’t just possibilities but certainties. He stood anyway, erect and ready to take it, his eyes burning with some conviction stronger than pain, stronger than fear. Reese loved it – more to the point, he understood it. When he could stand to look in the mirror he saw it then too.

Speaking of mirrors, Reese glanced at himself in the rear view as he turned the engine over. He could do with a shave.

He had some errands to run first.

He accessed the car GPS with competent fingers, that hadn’t shook once since the tunnels.

\------------------------------------------------

When Finch had returned to his current apartment intent on activating the transmitter on his equipment and downloading the video, he had frustratingly found nothing. Thinking that the equipment may have been stolen, he had begun accessing cameras in the vicinity.

Finch stared at the image on the screen, not entirely decided on whether to be horrified or impressed. The image from the ATM camera was not stellar but it clearly showed a tall man dressed in a shabby coat entering the alley that branched awkwardly into the parking structure where he, Finch, had been discovered and very nearly met a sticky end.

And coming out again, objects with cords being bundled under the coat.

He hadn’t been expecting _this_. He should be aghast – and he was, because this was a further complication that he didn’t need – but he grudgingly admitted to himself that impressed was winning. John Reese was fast to take the initiative.

Finch tapped away feverishly at his multitude of keyboards, scouring data on one and then adding lines of code in another, researching with another. Sleep was absolutely not a possibility tonight. Between the phantom sensation of a gun pressed to his head and the terrifying moment when an unbonded Sentinel had held what was pretty much a part of his soul literally in his hands...Finch shook himself and continued on.

He gently added new parameters to the strata of the programming as and when he could; the Machine already ran with perfect accuracy but people had a way of shifting what was expected on a daily basis. The more data the Machine could use to cross-check, the more conclusive results it could calculate. The possibility of a Sentinel off the registry was almost taboo, they had been fully ratified as an authority for...oh, well over a century.

Almost in spite of himself, Finch a pang – maybe even a soupcon – of outrage on behalf of John Reese. The CIA must have found him in the military just after he’d come fully online as a Sentinel. They must have thought they’d struck a goldmine. A Sentinel not just shrouded in the Company’s best fake history, but a genuine off-the-books Sentinel. The possibilities were endless. There were all sorts of laws and downright cultural decencies that were supposed to keep that kind of thing from ever happening.

Mind you, it wasn’t like they could have brainwashed him. John Reese looked like a man who walked into things eyes open. Finch wondered what kind of pressure point they had used. A ‘Truth and Justice’ speech? Money? Or maybe, Finch thought darkly, they had promised him a Guide who could help him with his suddenly super enhanced senses and aggression. What better way to control him than to dangle that in front of him, like prime steak in front of a guard dog; all the more vicious for being starved to death...

Finch paused in the middle of his re-coding of the Machine.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose in a wave.

Something was _watching_ him.

Without turning his body or letting his heart so much as climb a single beat, he pulled up the security logs for the apartment; nothing. Nothing on the half a dozen cameras or the two dozen motion and pressure sensors. Nothing in the elevator shaft connected to the penthouse. Nothing on the perfectly vertical, heavily shaded glass outer walls...

Finch turned, warily.

The....well, it was a cat of some kind, not one of the big ones, but too large to be some domesticated pedigree. It didn’t show up on the cameras anywhere.

Finch stared at it...whatever it was. Mid sized. Tawny. Sleek like a sports car could only dream of being. The triangular face surmounted by overlarge ears with long tufts at their black tips would have looked perfectly at home in any number of ancient Egyptian statues.

So _that_ was how it was going to be? Finch didn’t think so.

“Leave,” Finch commanded icily. “Tell your Sentinel that I am not interested.”

The spirit animal cocked it’s head at him and gave a rumbling growl.

Finch didn’t usually do this, but he accessed the deepest part of himself a poured all his power into it. _“Leave._ ” The Guide commanded.

The spirit animal vanished.

_This_ , Finch thought as he jerked in a breath past the sudden wash of pain, wishing he could even double over anymore, _this was going to be a problem_.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

We have heard the chimes of midnight...and one....and now it was two in the morning and Lionel Fusco hated every second of it.

Of course, he wasn’t fond the fact that his arm was twisted so far up his spine that he could just about pat himself of the back of the head either. “Jesus fucking _Christ_ , what the hell do you want?!”

The Shadow (and yes, he had fucking earned the capital S) behind him made a contemplative noise that set off all sorts of alarm bells in Fusco’s head; this wasn’t some random thug, the veteran cop in him screamed, you’ve got yourself a bona fide cold blooded _killer_.

It was a bad night for the detective. He’d had to slink away from Stills when the guy was all out for killing some innocent bystander and off Fusco had slunk because the only alternative was a bullet with his name on it. So while Stills - and what the hell had happened to that guy, anyway, he had never been like this before - had gone off to do who knows what with their hapless witness, Fusco had gloomily finished his shift and gone to visit his son, which had lead to him visit a bar to kill a few brain cells in the hope that all the crap in his life would stop nagging at him; maybe he could forget that he was probably due for a ‘crossfire incident’ anyway, for not going along with Stills and for back talking the bitch queen DA...

And just when you think life might stop pissing on him the Shadow had managed to yank him into the pitch dark of some god forsaken alley and slam him against the walls a few times; maybe just for the fun of watching him die.

“I expect you’re wondering how I managed to track you down, Lionel,” the rasp was pleasant and cheery. “It isn’t actually as impressive as you might think. Your friend Stills had you saved into his phone; after that, tracking you was like a three-year-olds Easter egg hunt.”

Fusco went quiet. “You know Stills?”

There was that contemplative little ‘hmm’ again. “Know might be stretching a bit,” the Shadow replied lightly. “His body is currently stashed in the trunk of his car which you, Lionel, will be disposing of for me in due time.”

“What? _What?_ ” Forgetting himself, Fusco tried to twist around when something mysterious and white-hot painful happened to his kidneys. “Stills is dead?” he mumbled after he moaned a bit.

 A free hand (and what the ever loving hell, Fusco was a beefy guy and _this_ guy was keeping him restrained with one hand) smacked into the wall next to his head. “I need you to focus, Lionel. Focus,” the hand held what looked like a very small camera but it had one of those fold out screens. “Watch the tape.” The voice was still pleasant, but there was a fatal warning in it’s undertone. “Tell me who the players are. Aside from you, that is.”

Stomach churning and sinking as his life going down the crapper flashed before his eyes, he watched the meet where one of the guys discovered the crippled man who just happened to stumble on it. Shit, this was bad. If this ever came out Fusco wouldn’t be able to get his head above water without a submarine.

His arm turned into an even crueller line of pain. “Lionel,” the Shadow rasped. “When I ask questions the answers are not multiple choice. I want to be honest with you, Lionel, totally honest. The _only_ reason you are not currently shaking hands with Stills on the other side is that you wanted no part in the murder.”

_You do what you gotta do,_ Fusco-on-the-screen said in disgust, not looking at the geeky guy. _I’ll do what I gotta do. Right now that don’t include shooting some random guy._

_Jesus, can’t your boys grow a little more spine, Stills_? the woman DA tossed her head.

_Can’t you grow a little less balls, lady?_ Fusco had snapped at her, before stalking away.

“You know what I think, Lionel? I think you might actually be doing this whole thing out of loyalty. That’s good; we can work with loyalty, I have uses for loyalty; maybe enough to keep from killing you. But my good will is completely dependent on what you say next.  Make me happy, Detective; you might actually get to see the next sunrise.”

Fusco weighed his options; they didn’t even register on the scales. “Look, I just know Stills; the other guys and just guys, you know? I don’t mix with ’em. Stills was the one who got me in. But,” the word was high pitched as the pain sky rocketed. “But the lady, she’s a DA. Diane Hansen. She was giving orders to Stills.”

“About Wheeler?”

Oh yeah, that would be on the tape too. “Yeah. Another DA. Hansen wants him gone. That all I know, man, I swear.”

“And,” here there was a slight hesitation. “The witness?”

“What...oh, you mean the guy with the glass...” his voice dissolved in the ensuring agony from his knee. “Don’t know him...I swear...just...wrong...place, wrong time.” He panted out the words as best he could. “That the truth.”

The pressure abruptly vanished and Fusco wavered, off balance, clawing at the walls to stay upright. “Your friend’s body is never going to be found.”

Fusco gave up. “Sure, no problem.” he grunted.

“I’m glad you see things my way, Detective. I’m also glad you’re wearing your vest.”

Four bullets hit Fusco in the back, and he sagged into unconsciousness.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Finch sat back over his screens, thinking over the Hansen problem. Without the recording he didn’t have a lot of options for stopping her in her tracks.

He had arranged for her intended victim, DA Wheeler, to be out of town until Monday; an e-mail from and old colleague had popped up in his inbox, offering good tickets to a hockey game in Jersey. Wheeler had been tempted enough to take his son along, slightly puzzled as to why the passing acquaintance had given them to him rather than closer friends, but not willing to look the gift horse in the mouth given he didn’t get much chance to be with his son.

But this was only a delaying tactic. The threat would be just as real when he got back; Hansen was an ambitious and goal orientated woman.

Finch played briefly with the idea of financially crippling her; a few numbers in the right systems should do the trick neatly. It was a solution that offered him some personal satisfaction. He did not like the woman. This city was bad enough without the ones in charge being the ones to blame. Watching her stand at the ruination of all her profits and work would be poetic, to say the least.

But then she would go to work the next day and may do something worse to get her way. And Wheeler would still be in the way and looking too close.

No, he needed to ruin her. He needed the tape, damn it.

Finding John Reese was no cake walk though, even for the Machine.

Finch rubbed weary hands over his face. On his wall and in his gaze, always in his gaze, was his wall of failures; of people that couldn’t be saved, who should have been saved. His...tribe.

_Why are you fighting this_? Some part of him demanded. _You know you need help, someone you can trust, someone who can do the legwork since you_ can’t _anymore_. The Sentinel was not just the best solution, he was a perfect one.

But there was a reason. A face flashed across Finch’s inner eye; now _there_ was a memory – not old, exactly but pressed deep as only a good warning could be....

_Time: June 14 th, 2002_

_Location: Cam 005, ITF Bldg_

_They called him ‘Fitzy’ Fitzgerald; the name was so obvious that even his friends didn’t really know his actual one. Good old Fitzy....Morning, Fitzy...How do you_ do _that Fitzy...._

_The latter because Fitzy was the best sales rep the company had; perhaps the best it had ever had. He was all fair, slinky good looks and long sooty eyelashes that drew attention from everyone, but that was just the starting point. Fitzy enthused, he cheered, he complimented without flattery; he took decades off older women, he added wisdom and gravity to young entrepreneurs just starting out. He made friends – everyone wanted to be friends with Fitzy. He was just as much at home in a high end tea room as he was a pulsing nightclub. He was a chameleon; he gave an air of bright student to the intelligentsia, a discreet assistant to the hard working millionaires, a good kid from a small town to the labourers and builders. The sweep of those long lashes and sweet smile had blunted the sharpest and most cynical cutthroats._

_Finch wished he hadn’t been so busy back then; so inundated with his work. But it was hard to remember a time when he hadn’t been; it wasn’t just a job to him, it was his identity._

_He would have taken on the young man, at least long enough to explain why it wasn’t good to draw attention. Attention brings jealousy, which in turn brought other things..._

_Finch hadn’t been there the day they had come for Fitzy. He had watched the camera footage later, heart aching. The Registry officials – four men for this scrawny kid – had swooped down on his desk. There had been a conversation not visible on the cameras, but Finch could guess. Fitzy was white, snapping angrily at them, but eventually he had been quiet, saying nothing._

_‘It isn’t mandatory’; that was the biggest lie. ‘Not mandatory’ wasn’t the same as ‘voluntary’. It hadn’t even been ‘not mandatory’ for very long. A long hard struggle after the Vietnam War had finally gained some slow progress towards Guide rights, thirty years after race, gender and class rights had hit their sprinting speed._

_‘Not mandatory’ meant they couldn’t force you to join, be sequestered and trained; but they could cancel scholarships, they could smear reputations, put the right words into the right ears – because everybody knew Guide should be trained, right? No one wanted to work next to an untrained one, a rogue one..._

_No, they couldn’t force you to join. But they could make it your only viable option._

_Finch had heard later that Fitzy had bled out in some anonymous desert somewhere, because his bonded Sentinel was in the military. His friends – former friends – never even spoke his name. The kid with all that talent, with that golden voice bleeding out because you can’t argue with a bullet...it was a waste, and Finch hated waste._

_But once the Registry Centre - that bunch of everyday humans, not a Sentinel or Guide in the room - had you, they had all of you; your past, your present and your future. Everything you owned, everything you made..._

\--------------------------------------------------

End Chapter Three


	4. Chapter Four: Gaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know; long wait. I'm actually way ahead of the ball on this one, but I've been a bit busy to post But look, two for the price of one!

The Oracle of Birds

Chapter For: Gaining

 

_Timeline: 7:03 am_

_Location: Sentinel Registry Centre, New York City_

Reese gave the face in the mirror a critical inspection. Minus a few pounds and added a few foam flecks, but it looked familiar finally.

He scrubbed off the remaining foam with the silk cloth left specifically for the purpose and flicked the razor closed.

The doctor – a woman, bland colour palate, stance authoritative but not military – looked up from the thin file she was leafing through in the exam rooms. She ran a professional, but nonetheless appreciative, eye over his boxers-only clad physique.

“Well Sentinel Russel,” her tone was low and pleasant. “You do clean up nice. Hmm,” a slight frown as she took a closer look at the smattering of welts peppering his skin. “How long have you had the lesions? Your levels looked to be all over the place when you came in...?”

There was a slight emphasis of pressure on the question mark; he gave his most charming smile. “It’s a bit of a blur right now, Doc.”

“No surprises there,” the doctor nodded. “To be frank I have worked here ten years and I have never seen a Sentinel in your state. There are all sorts of check-in programs for Sentinels leaving the military; they are still screaming at each other in Records to see how you slipped through the cracks. You should have been taken here the minute you touched down.”

Reese did the math; she was one on the non-Sentinel medics drafted after September 11. Sentinel medics were hit hard in the aftermath, and they weren’t exactly common to start with.

He kept back a grin at her obvious disgruntlement at the failure of bureaucracy. The real reason ‘Sentinel Jay Russel’ had slipped between the cracks was that he didn’t exist outside of them. One of Reese’s many contingency plans; a name to go in under at the Centre should he ever need a sanctuary. Russel was a bare minimum – a name and date on a screen that lead to misfiled papers – but useful. He was a way into the Centre that wouldn’t raise a flag immediately.

“I’ll get you some ointment,” the doctor was all briskness when it became clear the Sentinel wasn’t responding to her subtle interrogation. “Otherwise you look in remarkable shape, considering. You’ll need to gain some weight...you’ll also need to talk to the psychiatrist.”

“When can I leave?” Reese asked, his tone mild.

A head shake. “You’ll be under observation for at least a week and you’re to have more tests. We need to make absolutely sure you are physically fine. I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like living on the streets with yours senses in play. And the psychiatrist will need to certify you for you to leave. Sorry, but that’s the law. Enhanced senses, aggression and PTSD don’t mix well. And you are unbonded,” she added, watching him carefully. “The directors will probably want you to attend at least one Presenting.”

He smiled and nodded through the rest of her spiel, all the while silently calculating.

When she left the exam room for him to get dressed into scrubs, he dressed, silently paced into a blind spot of the one camera, twisted a duct cover off the vent in the low ceiling and was gone.

The irony, Reese thought idly while he slowly moved duct to duct, was that most people thought this was impossible. Crawling around in the industrial sized air filter system in the Centre, Sentinels with their enhanced hearing throughout? Impossible.

But it was because of the Sentinels that it worked. White noise generators were literally everywhere, shielding the Sentinels from the city dins, and incidentally from the four walls too.

He passed over a room his senses told him were full of unbonded Sentinels and one Sentinel and Guide pair. The white noise generators were scratchy and annoying, but with the right training you could listen past them. Reese heard the bonded instructor giving a lesson on use of the padded Guide restraints, sternly informing that they were only to be used in the most extreme cases of uncontrollable outbursts; how to loop and twist them to bring about maximum immobility and minimum harm or pain...

\--------------------------------------------------------

_Location: Budapest_

_Timeline: July 4 th 2010_

_Despite what the powers that be intentions were, Reese sometimes did end up with a quasi Guide along the way. He knew Kara arranged it somehow, when his senses burned and cut deep and would not be subdued with the normal methods or drugs._

_They were invariably foreign, usually very young and stank of medication they were doped with to keep them from bonding. The US track record of Guide rights wasn’t completely pristine but it wasn’t totally irredeemable either – not compared to some of the places Reese had infiltrated. The drugs were harsh, they screwed with brain chemistry and, if mixed incorrectly, were easily fatal. But in some countries they were a desperate sort of freedom._

_After hearing so much broken English and a handful of other languages that Reese knew, it was a surprise – and not necessarily a welcome one – to hear a Brooklyn accent at one of his meets._

_He called himself Jack – Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, he’d quipped wearily – the only code name he’d been given._

_He was doped heavily; no good in a field situation, none of them were. He was there for preparation before and also for the sensory hell afterward. Not through sex, that was too close to bonding, but through shared meditation and sometimes just company. Reese suspected the reason all his half-Guides were so young was that he had enough of a moral compass not to use them physically and his superiors knew it._

_Usually, he decompressed – he regained control over his dials and rage – by taking care of the Guide. He couldn’t bond with them and had never felt to urge to but the doped Guides were usually shaking and sweating and wracked with pain and nausea. Sometimes they had violent hallucinations or tried to step off roofs to fly.  He may not have felt any connection to them but he was still a Sentinel and their suffering pulled at some deep place inside._

_Jack-be-nimble had been worse off than the rest – he was recovering from a cold that had taken advantage of a drug weakened immune system. He could barely get enough voice to try and help Reese with his dials, hacking and choking, throwing up, barely able to stand. Reese had hauled him into the shelter of a hotel and had stayed there, carefully seeing the kid through it._

_It wasn’t completely without a tactical benefit. He got a home base sitrep that wasn’t carefully edited like his handlers gave._

_“Why do you do this, kid?” Reese had asked, sorting through pill packets._

_“’S bad,” the kid had slurred while Reese tried to get his temperature down. “For Guides, I me’n. ‘S bad in New Y’rk.”_

_“Everything is bad since the planes, Jack.” Reese muttered as he reached for another sealed water bottle._

_“’S worse,” Jack rolled his eyes to look at him. “Y’think I’m stupid f’doing this? They yanked me f’m some shithole pris’n n’Spain. Gave me t’choice. Home, or work f’them.” The kid shifted restlessly. “Home? G’d ol’ US ‘f A? No g’d bein’ a Guide there now. Jesus, knew one guy, good guy, they yanked him str’ght fr’m his desk. No warrant, nothin’. You say t’mato, I say tom’to,” the kid crooned, half delirious. “Y’ say ‘Guide’ I say ‘slave’... ‘S like the Vi’tnam protests never h’ppened.”_

_Agent Orange had been the straw that broke the camel’s back when it came to Guide rights. Sentinels and Guides had gone into Vietnam, the Guides little more than slaves back then. But by the time the war was over there were so many protests, so many public suicides, so many rebellions from the Guides against their controlling authorities and even against their Sentinels that their rage could no longer be ignored. The authorities learned, much to their dismay, that without the Guide there was no Sentinel. At least, not one who would survive long._

_It wasn’t perfect, but it was getting there. Money, property, choices; Guides that came after Vietnam started making inroads and it was becoming everyday to see Guides as...well, just about another man on the street._

_And then the Towers fell. The Sentinels and Guides in New York fell._

_Suddenly, Guides rights seemed further away than ever before._

\----------------------------------------------------------

Reese dropped into the nearest room to the storage lockers he could find and stole quietly in. He had to wait while a few people moved in and out but the lockers were not high traffic areas and soon he was by himself.

He found the large-cupboard sized locker marked ‘M. Capshaw’ and opened it. There was no lock. There was no point. He checked the contents that had been stowed there and found nothing suspicious that suggested tampering; he took out an old suit carefully sealed in plastic, shoes, a trench coat and a spray bottle.

One clandestine trip to the records room later and John Reese strode calmly out of the Centre with a khaki duffel over one shoulder, casually tossing the spray bottle into the first dumpster he passed, leaving nothing of M. Capshaw or Jay Russel behind except a fake scent trail and an order on the computer systems that Sentinel Russel was in low-priority medical confinement to help deal with spiralling senses and that he was being transferred out to the Staten Island Sentinel rehab, though the transport order wouldn’t be found.

When he was certain he wasn’t being followed or searched for, Reese found a quiet corner in a parking garage and took an inventory. It had cost a lot of money and time to set this cache up but this moment paid for all of it. He took out in order; a brand new digital camera, a spare set of loose clothing, various ointments, antibiotics and bandages, a cash box full to the brim with various denominations, a decorative wooden box that held a blue-sheened handgun and spare ammunition and, in the false bottom of said box, various passports and other papers.

He pulled out the coat scrap the Guide had left in the tunnels. Reese had sealed it in one of the dead cop’s evidence bags and had carefully kept it hidden from Centre officials.

He dialled up his senses with care; his usual iron control was shaky. His senses would balloon out without warning and then shrink back. The Sentinel side of him was not happy; it knew it had to find the Guide but was being repelled by too much stimuli. Pretty soon Reese was sure his temper would go on a hair trigger. He could already feel a seething restlessness under his skin.

Squeezing every bit of focus he could, Reese properly scanned the material. His Guide indeed smelled of old books, plastics and ozone – electronics _and_ old books? Unusual. Reese was able to draw out the scent of green tea; no hint of coffee. And, oddly enough, not any scents of other people. Unbonded Guides tended to find crowds a bit trying, but they were generally social. Their empathic abilities drove them to seek contact and connection with at least a few people. And they tended to smell like a lot of other people because they were tactile; they loved to touch, to be sensual; they were pleasured by giving pleasure, even just through casual hugs. This Guide didn’t smell like anyone except himself and the dead cop; the last person who touched him. Also unusual.

Reese rolled the material across his lower lip to get a more in depth touch-map that his calloused hands could manage. He relied more on his sense of touch than any other.

Reese was unusual for this as far as Sentinels go. Of course all five of his senses were enhanced to a sometimes unbearable maximum - his test scores were off the charts - but Sentinels usually relied heavily on one or two senses in much the same way as normal people use a dominant hand. Sight, sound and smell were the popular three but Reese always preferred the tactile end that most Sentinels didn’t. Touch tended to be a double edged sensory tool – useful on a microscopic level not even sight could reach, but vulnerable to things like pain and allergies.

 Reese loved examining with his fingertips; he loved the balance and accuracy his touch gave him in hand to hand combat, being able to feel if his equipment was off, the slight vibrations given off by creeping footsteps, the near infra-red level of the sense of nearby body heat ... and also the hedonistic opportunities it offered when things got intimate. Because he relied on and subsequently trained himself in his tactile sense, he found it was easier to control and subdue the pain reflex too – always useful when torture was on the cards.

The coat was wool; high end superfine fibres that were as soft as feather down on the inner lining. The slight part of the seam still on the coat scrap was hand stitched with silk thread. The coat was natural grey wool, not dyed. The whole thing was understated but exceptional quality.

Reese grinned; this was just as good as having a scent trail.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

 


	5. Chapter Five: Meeting

The Oracle of Birds

Chapter Five: Meeting

 

_Timeline: Unknown_

_Location: IFT_

Finch was exhausted, but experienced enough not to show it. It had been a long weekend and the day was already not looking promising. DA Wheeler had come back to town, DA Hansen was still, literally, gunning for him and the Sentinel had spent the whole weekend haunting the inside of Finch’s head.

It didn’t help that Stills was reported missing; Finch could not find a trace of him anywhere which was quite a feat. Worrying transactions were beginning to appear in Hansen’s accounts and the accounts of her corrupt friends; they were concerned about Stills too which meant they might be seeking Finch– though Finch knew they wouldn’t be able to find him by normal means. But Wheeler was still in their sights. The situation was turning from bad to inevitable and even if Finch was able to tear Hansen’s life apart, that still wouldn’t make her intended victims any safer. Finch had come to work only because he knew Hansen wouldn’t be stupid enough to do something in broad daylight in a court house; he could monitor from here.

And to add to matters, a flock of chittering sparrows had kept pace with him as he walked into work; a sure sign that his empathic abilities were slipping out of his control; a control he desperately needed to maintain.

He limped stoically into the elevator, mind already multitasking his day. It wasn’t until the doors closed that he became aware of it – that warning thrum in the back of his brain.

_John Reese was in the building._

A spike of shock and panic ran him through; he quickly and ruthlessly discarded it. Various options ran through his mind. He could call security; no, that would only delay him. He could get off on another floor and escape the building...no, Finch grimaced. He might have a lot of skills, but physically outrunning a Sentinel was definitely not one of them, not even before. And he had to assume Reese knew he was in the building.

Confrontation seemed the only way. Finch knew the value of waging battle when on his own ground.

Steeling himself and his sparking abilities against the near tangible presence of the unbonded Sentinel, Finch stepped off onto his floor. He didn’t immediately see the Sentinel but his extra senses pinged off the other man’s presence sharply enough to reveal his location.

And his interest.

Finch rolled his eyes mentally. Of course he was in Finch’s cubicle, of course. Though Finch had to give him grudging credit, he was staying hidden. None of his co-workers were even aware he was there.

Finch was so focused on getting to his desk that he almost ignored his name – well, his pseudonym – being called. He pivoted slightly to face his floor manager. “Yes, Dave?” be buried the impatient snap lurking in his throat.

“Harold, we need you to code the database a little faster. The deadline has been set back again,” the man gave a bland smirk to chase his superior tone.

Finch gritted his teeth, mentally appealing the heavens to tell him _who the hell hired this idiot?_ Finch certainly wouldn’t have. It wasn’t just the ego and the power tripping that annoyed him but that flash of superiority flavoured pity when he looked at _poor gimpy little Harold_. And as a Guide Finch could feel it as well as see it which made it even worse.

He forced himself to smile obligingly. “I’ll get right on it.” He awkwardly skirted the man – who seemed to enjoy watching Finch be physically disempowered because he never politely got out of the way – and headed for his cubicle.

He very deliberately didn’t look at the blind corner where John Reese had folded himself rather neatly for such a tall man; though the reflection from his monitor showed a much more appealing face than the last on he’d seen in the flesh.

“If you want me to punch him in the face for you, I’m ready and able.” Said a low voice that did strange and tense things to Finch’s insides. “And willing. Very willing.”

Finch snorted; for a moment it was actually tempting. “And what would it take for you to be willing to leave me alone, Mr Reese? I would have thought a man of your observational skills would have been able to discern my answer to you.” Finch kept his voice Sentinel low, and booted up his computer. Something furry brushed his shins and knees; Finch surreptitiously glanced under his desk and saw the Sentinel’s spirit animal – a caracal, his research had found – purring at him, it’s eyes glowing in the dim space. A chitter behind him made him glance around; his spirit animal was hopping and fluttering across Reese’s folded knee and bracing arm.

“Why don’t you like me, Harold?” the rasp was pleasant; it ran whisper soft fingers up Finch’s damaged spine. “He likes me.” He gave the small bird a scratch with a gentle fingertip.

Finch was feeling put upon. “He is what is commonly known as a ‘bird brain’ Mr Reese,” he retorted acidly. _Traitor_ , he directed toward the spirit animal mulishly, in his head. “There is no rule to say I have to follow along. And speaking of which, what are you doing here?”

“I felt bad about the damage you took while the cop was trying to kill you,” the rasp was still pleasant, but there was a darkness in the undertone. “So I bought you a new coat.” Something expensive wrapped in plastic was discreetly pushed under Finch’s chair. “Took me hours to find the shop, but their stitching is distinctive. Don’t worry, they didn’t breach your privacy. The girl who looked up your customer file wore glasses and the screen was at the right angle to show the usual delivery address. Of course,” Finch could actually _hear_ the insouciant smirk. “I did get a read of your measurements last night...”

Finch allowed himself a moment to let out a long string of silent cursing. That was another thing that bothered him about Sentinels; Finch could become totally invisible in the digital world, but Sentinels tracked using methods that were very hard to circumvent. Privacy was a luxury where Sentinels were involved. Finch couldn’t stand it.

“And the detective?” Finch asked, his tone showing none of his inner turmoil.

“Not a threat.” Was the unequivocal reply. “His friends on the tape, though...”

Finch let the Sentinel’s diamond tipped stare slide right through him. “Give me the tape and they won’t be for long, Mr Reese.”

“I can’t do that, Harold,” Reese smirked.

“Then you are of no use to me,” Finch replied icily. “You may go. Never try to find me again. Anything else you want from me you can’t get without my permission; and I am not and will not ever give it.”

The Sentinel appeared to ignore this. “I know why you don’t want a Sentinel, Finch,” he said gently. “I don’t want what the Centre offers; you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not, Mr Reese,” Finch’s voice was arctic.

“I know you’re not,” Reese grinned. “That’s why you’re so interesting. You are not anywhere on the Centre’s records. You are trying to track down crooked law enforcement officials to whom you haven’t the slightest connection. You work in a worker bees cubicle in a building that you founded and own. You’re hiding in plain sight. You are an enigma, Finch.”

“Take the hint,” Finch retorted waspishly.

“I wonder what your co-workers would say if they found out their boss was sitting next to them, day to day?” Reese was smiling playfully.

“Give me a better office, probably,” Finch replied stonily. “A much kinder fate than what will happen to you if the CIA ever find _you_ out, Mr Reese. Stop playing this game, you will not win.”

“I’m pretty good at beating the odds, Finch.”

“Not where Ms Jessica was concerned.” There was a sudden, flat silence. “No snappy comeback? I’m not surprised.” Finch squeezed his eyes shut at the sudden burning grief that poured into him. “I know what you’re looking for, Mr Reese; I know what you need. But I can’t give it to you. I’m sorry,” Finch added sincerely, surprising himself. “But I just can’t. I can’t.” The last was a whisper, even for a Sentinel. “You should go.”

Finch tapped away mindlessly as Reese rose quietly to his feet, sighted the area for a discreet exit.

“I think you underestimate yourself, Harold,” Reese said eventually. “But I can show you that. You won’t need the tape; not anymore.”

Finch turned around to see what the Sentinel meant, but he was gone. He turned back to his monitor and made it about three words in before giving up and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Who was your friend, Harold?”

Finch sighed. “No one; just a courier.” He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and fumbled for it.

That bland face of Dave the floor manager lingered over the wall of his cubicle with a disapproving frown. “You know we’re not allowed to have personal visits outside of lunch breaks. Don’t make me report you.”

Finch stared at his phone, and replied primly. “A man who invites prostitutes in after hours and sometimes during hours at least once a week to have sex in cheap business suits in the corporate board room is in no position to throw stones, Dave.”

The man actually backed up. Flustered and red faced, his mouth opened and shut as he cast for something to retort; derailed by the sniggering he could hear from cubicles around him.

Underneath Finch’s desk the caracal growled, hackles going up.

 _Oh yes,_ Finch muttered mentally. _What are you planning to do, rip his throat out with your ethereal teeth?_

He began packing up his desk even as Dave opened his mouth to scream in rage.

He had another number.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

_Timeline: Unknown_

_The boy grew up, as boys do. The only surprising thing that he ever thought happened to him was that he made at least one good friend; a young man who was his assigned roommate at one of the more prestigious universities. Nathan Ingram had laughed for a full five minutes after meeting the painfully thin and awkward and too young student. But then he’d offered a hand with no malice or patronising  
superiority behind it. “Nice to meet you.”_

_He’d enjoyed education, the freedom that came with it and the company of Nathan too. Nathan could very well have been one of those beer-bonging doped up kids that the college seemed overloaded with, but Nathan was a surprise – a dedicated and ambitious student and while not quite at his roommate’s lofty height of intellect, he had a lot of easy going charisma that promised to take him a long way because he was also quite smart; at least able to see where his roommate rambling mental path took him and that was not a common talent._

_One morning somewhere in that time the nameless young man slithered to wakefulness after about two hours sleep to the sound of chirruping right next to him. He opened his eyes and found himself nose to beak with a very small brown bird. It chattered at him, totally unafraid.  He blinked. “Will you keep the window shut at night?” he muttered blearily to his roommate._

_Nathan rolled over, mumbling something incoherent that turned into “Wha?”_

_“The window.” The ... sparrow? Finch? Was totally unconcerned with what the upright apes were doing. It warbled and tweeted, hopping back and forth on the mattress, shaking it’s tiny wings. The bird was mostly brown, with a bit of dark brown and pale brown striped in randomly, though on closer inspection there was a suggestion of reddishness on its head._

_“’S too hot to l’ve it shut,” Nathan protested half heartedly, still half asleep._

_“You can be in charge of getting the bird out, then.” The other replied, gently swooshing at the bird to get it to land on Nathan’s bed, though the bird ignored him._

_Nathan cracked open an eye at him. “Wha bird?”_

_He opened his mouth to reply and the words froze in his throat. Nathan was staring right at him; he would have had to have seen the bird to see him. He looked down at the animal in astonishment and the feathery head cocked at him, as if daring him to make something of it, and then vanished like smoke._

_A discreet check of the library later revealed that his spirit guide was, apparently, a common house finch. This worried him. It worried him a great deal. Especially since, apart from some truly odd dreams of flying, every time he went outside a flock of various songbirds – sparrows, finches, siskins, swallows, starlings and more besides would congregate. Nathan started calling him the Bird Whisperer (he didn’t appreciate it)._

_He kept a rigid, almost paranoid, eye on developments, but nothing really happened after that._

_He kept on studying and made his first million before he graduated. He and Nathan started up businesses, firms, speculations and more money started pouring in. The boy, who was now a man, was always confused at other people’s astonishment on how easy the money came. It was clear they did not see the world like he did; all calculations and patterns. But he did, oh yes, and he may as well be printing money._

_He travelled, he saw the countries of the world and often came back much richer than he left. He began spending on properties and institutions. His money reached the point where he could do nothing for the rest of his life and the money would make money all on it’s own. The dazzling peaks of the stock exchange beckoned and he turned out to have a talent for mountaineering._

_If occasionally he saw a nondescript brown bird out of the corner of his eye, or had a flash of insight into how someone was feeling and occasionally business partners found it hard to resist his voice, he shrugged mentally and ignored it. Just because he had a ... talent doesn’t mean he had to use it. He had lots of others._

_He strove to become invisible. Not just because his life was simpler and quieter, but because he had no desire to explore...the world those people like him lived in. The Sentinels....and the Guides. One half of the partnership all physical power and superhuman senses, and the other half all mental and empathic acuity. Maybe if he’d been born in the late nineties, his outlook would have been different. But maybe not._

_Since it was hard for someone like him to escape their notice, he let Nathan do all the frontman work; he was more suited to it anyway. He remained in the background, quietly revolutionising whatever he touched and no one who bumped into him on the street would know._

_But even geniuses can’t plan for everything._

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	6. Chapter Six: Tracking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know; I was plodding along and suddenly fifty-something pages later, I realised I have no idea how, exactly, to end this thing and so I mulled it all over a bit longer than I should have. I have plenty more written though.
> 
> Thanks so much to all my reviewers and kudos'ers; you feed my writer appetite :)

“Let me see if I have this straight,” Detective Carter said slowly, looking at the chaos in the run-down repair shop to which she’d been summoned. “These guys,” she pointed a finger to the bunch of teens and twenties who were actually pretty familiar even with their bruising now at that spectacular stage.  She raised an eyebrow at them which all but asked _seriously? You couldn’t keep out of trouble for forty eight goddamn hours?_ “Were dealing weapons out of the garage like the complete morons they are when a quote ‘guy in a suit’,” here Carter checked her notes. “Tall, dark, silver-shot hair, strides right on in, hands their sorry asses to them on a silver platter, takes every piece of the armoury up to and including...a _grenade launcher_? Has someone called the ATF? Right, okay, so he steals the merchandise, hog ties these fools and what? Just casually moseys on out onto the streets? Is that about right?”

“That’s what they say,” the beat cop was grinning. “Robbery was taking a good hard look at this garage as a possible arms bazaar; we figured since you’d arrested these guys a couple of days ago you were involved in the case somehow. Detective?”

Carter was busy counting bullet holes of various sizes on the walls, floors and ceilings. If the cars lending a legitimate air to the place weren’t already written off, they sure were now. But none of the would-be entrepreneurs were damaged in any significant way, unless you counted their now impressive collection of contusions. Huh. A total badass like that was concerned with the lives of these petty fences? “One guy did all this?”

“Hard to believe, but that’s what they say. Witnesses outside they saw one guy go in before and go out after.”

There was a handgun on the floor of the garage. Bending down to examine it, her eyebrows shot skywards. The barrel was bulged out and twisted. Like someone had swung a sledgehammer at it.

Or...someone had shot a bullet down the barrel. There was only one kind of people with that kind of pinpoint, impossible accuracy.

She met the eyes of the beat officer.

“Quite a thing, ain’t it?”

  _A Sentinel_?

Carter threw up her hands. “How the hell are we supposed to explain this to the DA?”

“The DA have their own problems right now, don’t they?” At Carter’s blank stare, the beat cop continued. “You didn’t hear? There’s some ruckus going on down there; one of the DA’s was caught on tape or something, ordering a hit.”

Carter’s mouth dropped open. “When did this city get so weird?”

The beat cop shrugged. “When you figure out the date, let me know.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

The e-mail Reese sent him – to his former work address – was just plain cheeky.

Password protected with the nickname the Sentinel had bestowed, the file had a photo of the youths that had attacked him in the subway trussed up and waiting for arrest. A floral ‘For You’ was signed across the bottom.

Who the hell did things like that? Finch stared at the picture, aghast, for quite a long time.

There was also a phone number. Finch had looked at it, and then deleted the whole of it.

John Reese was still occupying a lot of his attention. Not just because the Sentinel was hunting down and taking out criminals in the finest traditions of dead-bird-on-the-doorstep affection, but also because had been the one to stop Hansen in her tracks. Substituting the tape for evidence to be played in open court – sound only – was a masterful solution that Finch appreciated despite himself.

A discreet check of the police reports showed that an arrest involving the pictured youths had gone ahead yesterday, when Finch was busy warning a man that his wife was hiring people to kill him. He was grateful for the chance to do that; the moment where Finch had to choose between numbers, when an old one wasn’t done but a new one had surfaced anyway, was a cruel one. But Reese had taken care of Hansen, leaving Finch free to save his soon-to-be divorcee before the hitmen could even get near him. Ah, thank goodness for digital money transfers; they made it so easy to track who the likely perpetrator would be.

For the first time in a long time, Finch felt like he might be getting on top of the fight but the presence of the Sentinel in all this made him uneasy. Before he could properly form a plan to get Reese out of the city, however, Theresa Whitaker’s number had come up.

Suddenly every second of Finch’s day was spoken for in finding out how this supposedly dead fifteen year old was actually a very much alive seventeen year old. Even with only a sketchy police report of the apparent murder-suicide of the Whitaker family, once you accept the Machine never made mistakes it became easy to assume something much worse had befallen the Whitakers, leaving Theresa the sole survivor. After that it had all come down to tracking the money, and the money rested with the probate manager, Derek Whitaker.

He sought out her next-of-kin first; Derek Whitaker was in the wind but his ex-wife Elizabeth Whitaker’s grief, sincere in it’s blazing agony was still fresh and sharp. Finch felt it pouring off her without ever having to shake her hand. But there was no guilt there, no shame. Whatever had happened to her niece’s family, Elizabeth had not been involved.

Though her choice words about her ex –husband Derek, and all the bad company he kept, sounded promising.

Finch was going to have his work cut out for him finding Theresa Whitaker before the criminals Derek Whitaker had gotten both himself and his brother in bed with found her first. He did not need a distraction like John Reese.

Well, John Reese wouldn’t be a problem today.

Honestly, Finch snorted, tracking dots? The man must think he was a total amateur.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Reese could honestly say he was impressed. He was also frustrated and a little sheepish, but he was mostly very impressed.

When the trackers he’d managed to pass on to his Guide had gone in separate directions from the ITF building soon after he had exited, he knew the man was onto his plan.

The first tracker had been slipped into the purse of one of Finch’s co-workers; a very nice blonde lady who was very curious about the handsome man who was trying to track down ‘Harold’ with an implied story about how he needed to have him sign for the coat he’d delivered. With some glee she’d told him the story of how he’d exposed the juicy details of the floor manager’s risqué exploits not two minutes after Reese had left; a gem of gossip that would circulate the building for years. They’d shared a laugh and she’d been nice enough to give him the office cell phone number ‘Harold’ had still had on him as he’d quit. The phone had been disconnected.

 The trail then lead to the second tracker, none other than Dave the floor manager, who had wandered into one of the upper class flesh districts to salve his wounded pride. Well, it was going to need a little more salving once he woke up from being knocked out in an alley and delivered to Madame Sanguine’s House, already in leather restraints. The photos of him being disciplined by Lady Talon and her cohorts would be of great interest to his wife.

The third tracker took him into the storm drains where a homeless man in a four-figure grey wool coat grinned at him toothlessly and said that the man who had given him the coat had said that ‘maybe Reese would like to visit home’.

That accounted for all the trackers in the coat; but the fourth tracker was the one Reese pinned his hopes on. Slipping it under the Guide’s desk and getting is to step on it was tricky but promising. This one, however, lead to an empty bench in Central Park. Attached to the underside of the bench was a packet containing a thick stack of hundred dollar notes, a one way ticket to Canada and a handwritten note saying ‘Nice Try’.

Reese spent the next ten minutes on the bench, quietly laughing to himself.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Theresa’s friend knew more than he was telling. One look at the photo Finch was showing caused his anxiety and anger to ratchet up. Finch secretly cloned his phone and left, trying to look as harmless as possible.

He was ready for the text that the young man sent to Theresa, telling her to run for it. He was surprised she was so close by but knowing he couldn’t run after her he fixed his senses on her instead...and that’s when the birds came.

They were mostly sparrows and finches – a few pigeons thrown in for variety – that swarmed like bees and fluttered around the fleeing teenager like a cloud, following her path. An occasional flicker in Finch’s sight gave him glimpses of the direction she ran in. Finch cut down another street, turned a couple of corners and limped as fast as he could towards the parking garage where Theresa was running to, a brown feathered flock trailing behind her like a comets tail. She was so shocked by the birds that she slowed and stopped a couple of times, trying to wave them off. Finch was able to get ahead of her right before the entrance of the unmanned garage.

“Theresa.”

As she spun around fiercely, her feelings a blade of sheer anger and grief, something silver in her hands leaving a burning red slice on Finch’s arm.

Then the little birds swarmed her en masse, raining from the sky and landing on her, or swirling and diving around. She yelped and flailed in surprise, trying to shake off and escape the bombardment. “Get off!” she tried to swat the gripping little birds feet off her head.

“Theresa, wait,” Finch held up a hand as the girl spun, trying to shake the birds off. He breathed out and gently drew back his presence, which caused the birds to start winging away.

There was a muffled tapping sound. Finch looked down.

A hare, slender and lithe, was thumping a long foot on the ground, it’s hind legs up while it shadow boxed next to Theresa’s feet.

The birds had dispersed. Theresa, looking more dishevelled than before, was staring at him in open mouthed astonishment.

Finch sighed. It was going to be one of those days.

He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Theresa, please believe me – I am not here to hurt you. I promise.” Blood had soaked through one coat sleeve already.

Theresa was breathing hard. “What was...how did...you’re a Guide?!”

Finch winced at the volume. “Yes. So are you, I see.”

The hare danced around Theresa’s feet. Theresa’s eyes narrowed. “Do...You’re taking me to the Centre, aren’t you?” Her body was taut, she looked ready to bolt again.

“No! No, not at all. Not if you don’t want to,” Finch assured hastily. His own spirit guide, his broken, flightless finch, had appeared out of the feathered maelstrom and was now hopping around the hare, singing.

“Yeah right,” Theresa spat, backing away. “You have to join if they find you.”

“Ms Whitaker,” Finch came closer, letting her see the full extent of his crippled self. “If they were sending someone to chase you down, it clearly wouldn’t be me.”

She stared at him. Looked him over. Stared again. Then she relaxed slightly. “I guess you’ve got a point.” He could feel her reflexive panic and anger fade slightly, though worry and bitterness still bubbled in there endlessly. “Who are you?”

“I’m...” Finch hesitated. “Well, it’s rather a long story. But you are in danger; someone wants you dead, and I’m trying to help you.”

Theresa let off a wave of cynical scepticism. “Yeah, right. Look, I don’t know what you’re selling, but I can get by on my own.”

Finch shook his head. “Not from this. Please....I know this is a lot to take in and _believe me_ I know exactly how it feels to be under attack constantly, to not have anyone to turn to. I know you can see that in me, Theresa.”

The teen pursed her lips, but remained where she was.

“I know what it’s like to be alone, and helpless, and so exhausted that death would be an improvement but...sooner or later you are going to have to stop running. You’re going to have to trust someone.”

Theresa shifted her weight uneasily. “And then?”

“And then you make it so you never have to run again. I’m trying to help you; please, can you just come with me? You _know_ I don’t mean you harm, your instincts would tell you if I was. I will explain everything to you.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------


	7. Chapter Seven: Trusting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I have serious reservations about this. However, I've had half again as much of this story sitting on my computer metaphorically collecting dust for aeons and it's just ridiculous to keep it there. I'm not finished it yet; but here is the rest of what was written for this one. I hope to finish it still and I'm really pushing for it.

Chapter Seven: Trusting

 

The money made things easier, it always did. Safely hidden in one of Finch’s many properties, Theresa unwound slowly with a good meal and a sleep. She didn’t look like she slept much these days.

Finch envied her the luxury. He was busy on the laptop, thumbing through all the information he could find on the late Grant Whitaker’s business. He still did not know who, precisely, was after the girl, though a little digging had netted the why. Theresa Whitaker was technically a rich young woman through her father’s property acquisitions, if not for being dead of course.

The easiest solution would be that Derek Whitaker had paid to wipe the family out. That would leave him the closest living heir. But Finch had looked at the man’s financial records and quite frankly he barely subsisted from month to month. Hiring professional killers of a fake murder-suicide calibre was not cheap.

“I’m better off dead, aren’t I?” Theresa’s leaden voice broke into Finch’s thoughts. She was lying on the bed facing the wall, so Finch couldn’t see her face. The hare was nosing around one clenched white hand.

“Certainly not,” Finch’s reply was firm.

She turned slowly and sat up, face a mask of exhaustion and grief. “The guy who shot...” she stopped and swallowed. “The guy told me to run. My family was there and there was all this blood and he told me to _run_ and all I could think was I was going to get shot in the back. But he didn’t. I don’t _get it_. I wasn’t fighting him. M-mom and dad and m-my brother were all...” she stopped suddenly, shaking so badly that the bed creaked. But there were no tears, not one. Theresa had probably filled a lifetimes quota for tears and then some already. “W-w-why did he...”

Finch very gently gauged her state of mind. Theresa Whitaker was a miasma of rage, covering fear, covering bitterness, covering grief. She must have gone deep when she went to ground. It was a minor miracle no Sentinel had ever been drawn to her, this young Guide in so much pain. He cleared his throat. “Trauma can push you active as a Guide, whether you want to or not. You may have projected all your terror over him. It likely made him hesitate.”

Theresa gave a strangled parody of a laugh. “God, so this empathy thing that nearly kills me every day, that’s what kept me alive in the first place? How fucking _stupid_ is that?”

Finch sighed. “It’s unfair, I know.”

Theresa looked like she wanted to throw something. “And it saves me for _what_ , exactly? To get gang raped when the Centre finds me? Awesome.”

Finch was nonplussed. “What?”

She turned weary eyes on him. “It was just some stupid thing they used to gossip about at school, you know? Like, if the Centre found you they put you through all this initiation stuff.”

“Gang rape?” Finch repeated slowly.

She snorted at his expression. “Yeah. They tied the new Guides down and let all the Sentinels in the pack go to town on them. Oh, we knew it wasn’t true, not really. It’s just no one knows what happened to anyone after you go into the Centre anymore so everyone just makes up the craziest stuff imaginable.”

Finch shook his head. The mystique the Centre maintained around it procedures seemed to do more harm than good.

\------------------------------------------------------

Carter really, really didn’t like the Centre.

Sentinels she had no issues with. She’d served alongside them, worked with them, knew how useful they were. More than that, it was nice to be around people who you knew had a basic amount of honour built into them.

Guides she had no issues with either. Their abilities to know what you were feeling might give a moment’s pause but once that passed Guides tended to be fun to be around, especially when they were happy. Guides were good people and concerned with the pain and suffering of others. God knows that was a trait in short supply at times.

But the Centre rubbed her the wrong way, always had.

 Not because their officials tended to be the smug, superior type, that was fine. A lot of feds had that flaw, there were ways to deal with it. It was the relentless double standards they maintained that rankled Carter. One law for some, one law for the rest. They always seemed to be subtly reminding people that they and their cronies were above the law in some ethereal, divine right kind of way. It always put Carters hackles all the way up. Like right now.

“Look, I’m not asking you to give us the full list,” Carter clung to patience, she _clung_ to it. “Just run the prints we found through your database and let us know if there are any matches.”

Agent Rand Kincaid’s lips turned up in a slight smile that indicated he was polite enough not to laugh but not quite polite enough to hide that he wanted to. “I’m sorry, Detective, that will be impossible. The privacy of our members in absolute. We can’t hand over any information, even to the NYPD, about Sentinels in our system. It would be a breach of trust.”

Carter quirked an eyebrow. “Really? Because you’re happy enough to hand over even medical records if we think we’re chasing down a rogue Guide. Or do you only assist when there is something in it for you?”

Kincaid’s semi-polite demeanour dissolved. “We defend this city to ten times the amount of one precinct, detective. We’ve earned the right to have our records kept safe.”

“No, Agent Kincaid,” Carter retorted. “ _They_ have earned the right. You just polish their chairs with your backside and dictate policy.”

“You can’t go on a fishing expedition in our records. You might have to do some actual detective work instead,” Kincaid sneered.

“Half a dozen guys cut down like wheat by _one_ man who managed to shoot a bullet down the barrel of another gun from a distance our forensics assures me was about ten feet. Gee, my detective work seems to indicate a highly trained and skilled fighter, probably with a military background whose aim was so precise it verged on the supernatural. Ex-military, aggressive, supernatural level of skill...hmmm,” she placed an ironic finger on her chin. “That seems to point somewhere...can’t quite think of it...it’s on the tip of my tongue...”

Kincaid was white with fury. “He is _not_ a Sentinel!” he yelled furiously. “All Sentinels are registered with the Centre. We don’t know who this man is, his actions weren’t sanctioned, so he is not registered – and therefore, not a Sentinel!”

“So...the homeless guy we arrested who had been on the streets for more than a year as an online Sentinel, he was registered, yes?”

Kincaid shot her a scathing look. “That was a filing error. A one in a billion; he was on record, just not where we thought he was. Detective,” Kincaid rose from his plush desk. “I understand that you have concerns about our authority, but that doesn’t excuse you coming in here and trying to strong arm us into giving out information based on a rumour.”

“Well, Kincaid, I understand you don’t think I _have_ any authority, and that doesn’t excuse you from ignoring my request.” Carter rose stiffly to leave. “When this man resurfaces – and Kincaid, if he’s a Sentinel, he will – you’re going to have court orders coming out of your ass, though they might have to remove the rod that’s stuck up there first.”

He had the gall to smirk. “Good luck with that, detective.”

He escorted her to the entrance lobby where a Guide was fighting tooth and nail the padded restraints that a couple of orderlies were tying her down with.

Carter moved to intervene and nearly punched Kincaid when he moved to stop her.

The man waved his hands, placating. “I know it looks bad, detective, but the Guide is near overload. She’s unbonded. The Centre had to transport her here for her safety from her work, because they had medical concerns. Once she has evened out, then she can register here.”

“Or not, if she chooses,” Carter glared at him.

There was that galling little smile again. “Of course. It isn’t mandatory, everyone knows that. I know it looks disturbing but,” he gave a shrug. “It’s for her own good.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“I don’t know much about dad’s work,” Theresa shrugged. “I mean, I was fifteen. I really wasn’t that interested in what he did all day. And he didn’t really talk to me much, anyway. Neither of them did,” there was an edge of bitterness in her voice.

Finch sighed. “As it stands now, I have no idea how your uncle even found out you were alive, or who he is in bed with that wants you dead. I do know you are the heiress to some very valuable real estate that your father purchased just before he died, but as you are listed as dead...”

“Dad bought land? No way, we were in trouble then,” Theresa’s hands carded through her spectral hare’s fur. “I remember mom and dad both arguing about money, all the time.”

“Hm,” Finch pulled up records again. “Then to purchase the lands he would have had to borrow...or your uncle borrow.” Probably not from the banks, though. The Whitaker’s mortgages were through the roof. He began to search his records again, looking for any telltales that the money had come from less than legitimate sources.

Theresa sighed, still stroking the hare. “I should probably try to get into Canada. They don’t treat Guides like slaves there.”

“Well, that is the ultimate plan,” Finch replied absently. “But I thought you might want to see your aunt first.”

Theresa froze. “No way. No _way_!” she leapt to her feet furiously. “Dad said Uncle Derek was responsible, right before he...those people got us into this, they...” she trailed off, ringing with betrayal.

  “Your uncle maybe,” Finch said calmly. “I’ve met with Elizabeth, Theresa. The thought of you dead broke her heart. It’s still breaking, every day. When I told her there was money involved, the only thing she asked was whether they had found your body so she could bury it, maybe get some closure. Your uncle may not care, but your aunt loves you very much. She wouldn’t hurt so much if she didn’t.”

Theresa sagged, all the fight drained out of her. “Aunt Lizzie...I...did she look okay?”

Finch pivoted to look at the wrecked Guide. “As well as could be, considering. She said you and she were close.”

“We were,” Theresa’s hands reached for the hare again, searching for comfort and connection. “I could talk to Aunt Lizzie. She listened to me. She didn’t...I mean, I loved my mom, don’t get me wrong...but mom checked out. She shopped twenty four - seven, she was barely ever home and when she was she was usually arguing with dad. Aunt Lizzie was the one I would go to if I needed to talk. Even if it was about what I did in school today. Mom barely even knew she had kids.”

Finch could feel the wash of old grief and resentment – now stale, tempered by loss. There was a certain wistfulness there that hadn’t been there before.

 “All Elizabeth wants in the world is to have you back, Theresa. I told you, you have to trust someone. There are worse choices than her.”

“Can we go see her?”

“Not right now; we have to make sure you are safe first. Once we’ve found the people that are out to get you and stopped them, then we can make other plans.” Finch’s phone beeped. “Sorry, I have to take this. I’ll be right back.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

Reese was still on the park bench. When Reese had nothing to do – which wasn’t often – he tended to still completely and just contemplate for a while. It tended to be cheaper and less annoying than therapy.

His caracal was stalking pigeons. The spirit animal didn’t seem overly bothered by the fact that he slid right through their twitching little bodies like smoke. The pigeons were restless; even though there was nothing physically there, they clearly sensed something amiss. It was amusing as hell to watch them get punk’d by a phantom cat.

Reese was currently, as always, totally focused on his Guide. The other man was a shadow on his senses, already tethered there in some inexplicable way. Reese had heard of this from other Sentinels in the field, how the first time you saw them and knew, just knew.

\-------------------------------------------

_Time: September 11, 2001_

_Location: Mexico_

_She was disarming, he unwound around her, and suddenly the service chafed rather than embraced. Leaving it for her was a hell of a good trade, even though there was a part of him that registered a doubt over leaving the military. It was who he was, what he was. He didn’t have a map for a life outside it._

_When he’d first seen Jessica, he’d known, just known, that she was his; the one who made him want to be better. It wouldn’t be the worst thing then, blazing a trail._

_Mexico was pleasant, she was glorious and all seemed well. She was a bit shy on introducing him to her family, but he was willing to wait. There weren’t any deployment deadlines coming up, no chance of sudden missions going in the dead of night. He had time that was all his now. Any uneasiness he felt about this new direction would go, eventually._

_He was out of sorts that day, tense with an unknown discomfort. He’d been yanked from sleep abruptly, wide awake for no reason. Maybe it was the rash he was developing, that popped up so suddenly. Jessica had laughed and joked that maybe he’d developed an allergy to her. He said back that he didn’t care._

_Then he’d felt that pull in his gut, in his heart and it reeled him away from her. That’s when the announcements had started to come through._

_He hadn’t known it at the time but that was the day he’d come online. He hadn’t known it could be subtle, not immediately recognisable._

_He left Jessica. He wasn’t sure what to tell her – he wasn’t even sure what he was telling himself. All he knew was that there were no other choices. He trotted out something about protection, about her not getting hurt, which was all true, all of it._

_It was only after that he realized. When he’d – or rather, when the CIA – had found out what he was. As a Sentinel he could have married Jessica, stayed with her all of that – but that wouldn’t change the fact that somewhere out there, there was a Guide waiting for him. In his own way he had known when he pushed her away that it wasn’t fair to expect her to accept less than all of him._

_Maybe that was why he hadn’t ever fought not getting a Guide from the Company. Maybe he was nursing a vain hope that he would come home, and Jessica would be waiting, and it would be enough._

_But for that hole inside, that place the Guide was supposed to fill, half measures never would be._

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Reese blinked to clear his vision. A Frisbee had shot across his eye line, startling him out of the near-zone he’d sunk into.

He’d never thought he’d feel that pull again – that perfect pull that told him, without any doubt, that this person was his. He’d thought he’d had that already, a one-time only deal, before his genetics had turned on him.

But the first sight of that man under threat in the tunnels had destroyed that thought. There was the pull again. One that went deeper and more inevitable, like the gravity of planets. He knew what it was.

He knew the other man felt it too.

He thought about the broken winged little bird. Spirit Guides do reflect their charges; but on the level of the soul. Whatever had happened to Finch physically had paled to whatever had happened to spiritually. He was wounded all the way down. Was he in so much pain that he couldn’t feel Reese, couldn’t know that Reese would die to protect him?

Reese looked over at his caracal. He knew there had to be a way to track his Guide, to find him wherever he was. Not with trackers or scents, but with the thread now binding them. All he had to do was find a way.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

“Was that your Sentinel calling?” Theresa asked. She was heading back towards the bed where the spirit animals were hopping and bouncing around each other.

Finch looked up at the question as he re-entered the room. “No; I have asked some sources to check on the whereabouts of your uncle.” They couldn’t find him, which was worrying.

“So...you don’t have a Sentinel, then?”

 Despite himself, John Reese flashed in his mind. “No.”

“And the Centre is happy to let you wander around? I thought, you know, they kept tabs on you and dragged you in whenever there was a Sentinel to be bonded.”

“The Centre doesn’t know about me,” Finch answered carefully.

Theresa blinked. “Oh. Wow. That’s actually pretty cool. Uh...can I ask you something?”

Finch inclined his head slightly.

“The thing with the birds...how did you do that?”

It was a fair question, Finch thought, wondering how much he could tell. “I’m not entirely sure...but you know how Guides have a spiritual presence, yes?”

“Yes, but,” Theresa have the little finch a stroke. “These guys are supposed to be our spiritual presence, right?”

“Yes and no,” Finch explained. “Yes, they are a part of our abilities and our souls, but they are...attached from the outside. From the astral plane. We call them to us, fill them with our own power. Our presence comes from within us, from our psychic abilities. When I expand my presence – or lose control over it, or focus on something or someone to hard, it can affect the minds of birds like my spirit animal. They flock to wherever it is I am or am tracking.”

Theresa grinned with enthusiasm. “Cool! I wish I could do that.” She looked over her hare ruefully. “I don’t think there are many of these to call, though.”

“Not all Guides have the same abilities. Some have precognition, some have psychometry, some can find people no matter where they are, there’s a rare few who can astral project...different people have different talents.”

“I guess some Guides are powerful and some aren’t,” Theresa replied.

Finch grimaced. “I don’t think of it in terms of power. I think it has more to do with potency. Like alcohol. They can all get you drunk but at different rates.  Beer you can drink a lot of, wine less of and only a little liquor.”

“So, a beer Guide might be able to find one person anywhere, but a liquor Guide could astral project right into their heads and knock them clean out. Still sounds like one can’t do as much as the other,” Theresa said sceptically.

“Yes, but consider,” Finch replied. “The...beer Guide, as you said, can only locate the person; but he or she can keep locating people all day. The ... liquor one might be able to astral project, but he or she could only do that once and then they would be drained of energy. The beer Guide might be able to locate a dozen people – missing children, criminals per day whereas the liquor Guide might be able to manage to take out one and then might have to convalesce for several days. Mathematically the beer Guide would be ahead on points.”

Theresa considered this. “I never thought about it like that.”

“Keep in mind that these extra abilities are usually quite rare. Most Guides have a wide range of intuition and empathy at their disposal; the particular talents aren’t usually needed, even when you do have them.”

“Just as well,” Theresa petted the hare again. “I don’t think we’re anything special.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Finch replied. “You have been under the radar for almost two years. Even with assistance and your quick thinking that was no mean feat. I’m usually aware when another Guide is within about three hundred feet of me, but you were not fifty feet away when you first ran. I think you have a way of making yourself invisible to attention; a talent no doubt honed by necessity. A talent that I rather wish I had, really.”

Theresa was open mouthed. “I never knew that!” She thought for a moment, eyes darting as she sorted through memories. “You know...I never noticed before, but security guards and stuff have never come up to me when I was, you know,” she flushed.

“Stealing card numbers from ATM’s,” Finch raised an eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, I know they had to have seen the equipment once or twice but they’ve never....huh,” Theresa trailed off. “The Invisible Girl. And her sidekick, Birdman!” she laughed at the expression on Finch’s face.

“It’s not invisibility, it’s more like hypnotic persuasion,” Finch muttered. “You send out a signal telling everyone around to disregard you, write you into the background. Useful, but probably only if no one is actually looking for you specifically. And also, why am I the sidekick?”

Theresa laughed harder. “So, what is the strongest talent you have heard of?”

Finch pursed his lips. “That would be the famous Dr Blair Sandburg, Washington State. He has a whole slew of extras but the most spectacular, I believe, is his ability to make the spirit world visible on the physical spectrum.”

Theresa’s mouth dropped open. “You mean he can make these guys” she gestured to the spirit animals. “Visible to everyone?”

 “Not just them; dead people, ghosts...he once overlayed a part of the astral plane onto Cascade city, if you believe the rumours.”

“Awesome!” Theresa crowed. “A liquor Guide!”

“Blair Sandburg is the whole distillery.”

Because the hotel wasn’t in a busy season, Finch had thought it worthwhile to set up a sensor camera in the lobby. Anything that activated it was immediately routed to his laptop with an alarm so he could check faces. So far only the doorman and half a dozen guests at long intervals had caused the alarm to beep and Finch could dismiss them from the threat category before they’d even reached the elevators.

Now there were three beeps in rapid succession and Finch frown as he pulled up the camera views.

The three burly, suited gentlemen in the lobby were definitely not guests, not by the way they were dragging the doorman’s body in after them. Finch felt adrenaline’s sharp lash strike his chest.

“We need to get out of here, now.”

He must have projected because Theresa had gone white. “What? What is it?”

“There are armed men in the lobby; I think they’re looking for you.”

Theresa’s hare thumped it’s foot in a stacco beat on the bedspread while Theresa fumbled for her backpack. “Call the cops?”

“I would but,” Finch squeezed his eyes shut as the receptionist was soundlessly shot. “They’re leaving a member in the lobby. If the police come, they can just say it was a prank call. Even if they bring a special response team, it would take too long for them to set up.”

Theresa peered over his shoulder. “Look, one of them is going to the stairwell.”

“No...he’ll probably guard the rear entrance. One front, one rear, and one searching the floors,” Finch hurriedly started packing up his laptop.

Theresa made a noise in the back of her throat. “There’s no one we can call?”

Finch halted, eyes shut. He’d deleted it, he knew he’d deleted it, but Finch never forgot numbers.

“Yes...there may be.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

Reese was doing basic meditation in the park. If anyone thought to comment on a man in an expensive suit folding into the lotus position on a bench in Central Park, they took one good look at his physique and wisely kept their mouths shut.

He’d been there for hours. His caracal showed no signs of leaving and the broken winged bird no signs of coming, but at the very least it helped him gain some peace.

A sharp ring broke the silence.

Grinning because he couldn’t help it, he took the call. “Nice to hear from you, Finch.”

“ _I need your help._ ”

Any peace he may have found vaporised. Reese was on his feet and heading for the nearest main road at a dead run. “Address.” Was the crisp demand.

The Guide rattled it off briskly while Reese found a parking lot, found a car, smashed a window and prepared to hot wire it. The hotel wasn’t far.

“Sitrep,” Reese barked as the car turned over.

“ _I have someone here under my protection and there are people entering the building now coming to kill her. Three that I have picked up; there may be more. One man, six feet, light hair has taken over the reception, another five-four, average build has posted himself at the rear. A third man, six-three is searching the floors. We have a floor to ourselves on the seventh. These men all move like professionals, they feel like professionals and they are heavily armed. Semi automatics with high ammunition loads from what I could see.”_

Reese sideswiped a car, spun a corner to a chorus of screeching tyres and gunned it down a median strip. “Any other exits? Fire escape, garbage chute?”

“ _There is a fire escape at the end of the hall but it’s a tight squeeze to get onto.”_

“Too tight for you?” There was a beat of silence in which Reese started to curse.

“ _Not too tight for my ward. She is the main priority, Mr Reese. She is a Guide...what? Get away from the...damn it! Shut off the lights, all the lights! Mr Reese, the searcher is on our floor and heading for the breaker box.”_

Reese felt the car whine with stress as he took another rough corner. “I’m almost there. Can you get to the escape?”

“ _We’d have to go past him...I have to go.”_

The call disconnected.

Reese threw the phone down, turned onto the correct block and saw the hotel in the distance. His Sentinel hearing heard police sirens, but they were still a way back.

The CIA tried to drum discretion into him; but it had only worked to a point.

Reese gunned the engine and slammed on the accelerator.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 


	8. Chapter Eight: Saving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And more...if it helps, while not working on this I've written 90,000+ words on a new Sentinel/Guide fic? That helps, right? :)

Chapter 8: Saving

 

Finch forced himself to stay completely level, completely calm. He placed his fear in the sea of his mind, while he floated on top of it, free of it’s depths.

It wasn’t just his fear. Theresa’s hand was white knuckled around his wrist from where they huddled, hidden by the bulk of the bed in the suite adjoining their main one. He felt Theresa’s fear skyrocket as the steps went past their dark hiding room and towards their old room, where the light shone underneath the gap in the door.

Finch pictured Theresa’s fear...like a storm, yes, with heavy rain – but all the rain fell into the sea and in the eye of the storm the boat sat placidly in still waters, free of the torrent. Theresa’s grip slowly unwound, and her breathing slowed.

The door to their room opened, the light came on and Finch sank deeper, deep as he could go into that calm, taking Theresa with him. Slowly, the rain on the sea turned to a fine mist which abruptly became a sea fog so thick it was like walking in a cloud.

The man – and Finch could sense him and how repugnant he was, not because he was brimming with malice but because he wasn’t; he was a professional and this registered with him about the same as walking into an office everyday – scanned the room, walking almost silently. He came to a stop just short of the sleeping area, just short of seeing them huddle on the other side.

Theresa’s face was a picture of tense concentration. Finch could only hope her talent was as strong as it needed to be to turn his eyes away...

The steps slowly retreated.

Finch didn’t dare even breathe out until the sound of the steps faded. Theresa was bent double, breathing hard and shaking.

“Well done, Ms Whitaker.” He whispered quietly.

There was a torrent of sudden grief pouring from the young Guide. “She told them. She must have told them. It’s all over and I can’t...I can’t...” there was a sob.

Finch blinked. “Who told what?”

“Aunt Lizzie,” Theresa whispered brokenly. “I...I tried calling her when you went out of the room. She...she must have t-told them where I was!”

“Did you tell her where you were?” Finch asked sceptically. That didn’t fit with what he’d felt from Elizabeth when he’d met with her.

“No I...I called and she answered and I didn’t know what to say...so I just hung up. I shouldn’t have tried...I should just stop trying, my family is all fucked up or dead.”

“Theresa,” Finch said gently, urging her to her feet. “Your aunt loves you with all her heart. More likely the men hunting you were tapping her phones.” He shrugged as Theresa lifted her head to stare at him. “That’s what I’d do.”

Theresa scrubbed her face. “Now what?”

Finch didn’t get a chance to reply; there was an almighty crash from below them, so strong the shake came up through their feet. “Ah,” Finch said weakly, aware of his suddenly pounding heart. “I see the cavalry has arrived.” Fire alarms started to ring.

There was a voice yelling at the end of the hall as the would-be hitman shouted into his cell phone, demanding explanations. Then there was the sound of his moving to the elevator banks.

Finch grabbed Theresa’s hand. “Come on.”

They would have been fine to make it to the stairs except that the hitman couldn’t use the elevators; the fire alarms had locked them down. As the hitman came back to head for the stairwell, he was in the hall at the exact moment when they pair of Guides came out of the room.

There was a ringing, frozen moment.

Then, with agility that perhaps had netted Theresa her spirit animal, she yanked Finch back and around the corner into the window alcove at the end of the hall as the assailant opened fire.

Bullets peppered the wall, chasing their retreat.

Finch overtook Theresa, turning her towards the fire escape window and wrestling the sash open. “Climb on,” he ordered tersely.

“What about you?’ she hissed in disbelief.

Finch surveyed the iron cage of the fire escape dismally. The contortions required just to get onto it let alone climb it were far beyond him. “I can’t fit in there. You need to _go_ , Theresa. It’s you they want.”

Her expression turned mulish. “I am _not_ leaving you.”

Before he could try to argue, a gun hammer clicked from the alcove entrance. Finch spun around, shielding Theresa with his body as best he could as the gun tracked.

There was a blur and a sharp thud as the gunman was knocked to the ground. John Reese, his face slightly smudged and teeth bared, pounded the hapless assassin’s head into the vinyl floor for a good five blows, wrenching the gun from his hand by twisting it down and back so hard it snapped in two. The yelling halted as Reese punched the other man in the back of head, knocking him clean out.

Panting and half growling, Reese rose and stalked towards the pair that were pressed as far from the action as they could get.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” the words came out furious and loud. Reese crowded Finch – and by extension Theresa – back into the corner of the window, his large hands fastening around Finch’s face. His eyes flickered darkly to the Guide’s arm, where the smell of blood still streamed from beneath the bandages. 

Finch breathed out. “We’re fine. We’re both...fine. But we need to get out of here, now.”

Reese’s gaze flickered from Finch to Theresa and back. Cocking his head a moment, the Sentinel appeared to be listening to something.

“Police have just rolled into street; they’ll come in the front to start evacuations. We’ll have to slip out in the chaos.” He grabbed Finch firmly by his good arm sleeve and tugged to indicate they should move now.

Escaping was relatively easy after a brief stop to collect their gear. There were other guests in the hotel and they were moving as fast as they could down the stairwell. Lost in the flow, the three made it to the lobby where Finch got an astonished glimpse of the wrecked car that had been driven through the glass frontage and all the way to the back wall. It was peppered with bullet holes.

The police were directing people to police tape corrals out the front of the building, but Reese gently redirected them on a wide ebb towards the small back entrance that lead out to the parking garage. A car with it’s engine still running was waiting there. Not giving either Guide time to question, the Sentinel bustled them inside, Theresa in the back and Finch in the passenger seat, and calmly negotiated his way through the cordon around the parking garage entrance, flashing what looked to be a detective’s badge to the officer at the barrier and spinning a story about Theresa needing to go to the hospital under escort. Finch sat in the front, dressed in a suit and apparently looking something over on a laptop. They assumed he was a detective also.

Silence reigned as the chaos dwindled in the rear view mirror.

“Where to?” Reese asked roughly, once they were a safe distance away. He kept shooting glances at Finch’s wounded arm, as if he itched to peel back the layers and check the wound himself. Finch could feel rage and worry battling inside the Sentinel next to him. The sensations bubbled over his skin.

Good question. “We need to get Theresa to her aunt. She may be watched, though. I still don’t know who exactly is after her,” Finch explained slowly.

“No problem. I may have a source that can tell us.”

There was a thump from behind that made Theresa jump. “Is...Is there someone in the _trunk_?”

“The third man. The rear guard,” Finch breathed. He couldn’t deny it; John Reese was audacious in his planning.

 “Relax, he can’t get out. He’ll give the intel we need,” Reese’s lips curled upwards in a tiny smirk. “Eventually. Where does her aunt live?”

Which is how they ended up at a park near Elizabeth Whitaker’s home, where there wouldn’t be any electronic bugs and where Reese could thoroughly recon the area and get a handle on sight lines.

The two men stayed near the car while Elizabeth experienced a miracle, and maybe Theresa did to, far away but not quite out of Sentinel earshot.

Finch was uneasy about being left alone with the Sentinel. The man thumping on the roof of the trunk didn’t count as a chaperone.

“Will you relax? I can hear you sweating,” Reese murmured while the two women in the distance maintained a bone crushing hug. “I’m not going to jump you. At least, not until I know you haven’t got your taser.” Reese smirked.

Finch rolled his eyes.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Reese continued, looking the Guide over.

“You’re a Sentinel, Mr Reese,” Finch replied softly. “Of course you know why I’m doing this.”

“I can help you. You need help.”

“Yes, thank you for making me feel totally inadequate,” Finch muttered, but without much rancour. He couldn’t really argue with the facts.

Reese gave a short laugh. “Of all the things you are, Finch, inadequate is not one of them.”

Finch snorted. “Tell that to my back.” He shifted awkwardly.

“I can give you a massage...” Reese purred, to eager to be innocent.

“No, thank you Mr Reese,” Finch deflected drily.

“Are you precognitive? Some Guides do that,” Reese asked.

Finch blinked at the sudden change in tone and then let out a bitter laugh. “If I could see the future, do you think I would look like _this_?” He wanted to hate the Sentinel, he really did. But he couldn’t manage it. He was too grateful and felt too safe. Reese looked too good with his stubble just starting to regrow and his suit all the more handsome for being bloodstained and rakish. He was perfect. In the early morning light he was perfect and Finch drank him in.

But it was an opiate that he couldn’t afford to gain an addiction on.

Reese made an aborted move to touch him, just as the reunited Whitakers – tear stained but smiling – rejoined them.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

“I thought you said you didn’t have a Sentinel?”

The diner was quiet; Finch knew Reese had selected it for that very purpose, and it’s secluded location. He had escorted them in, plunked them down at a table that looked no different than any other (but he insisted) and had given them growled instructions not to move.

He’s also handed Finch a gun which was now wedged in his laptop case and making Finch extremely uncomfortable; he knew better than to argue, though. Theresa had taken to the knife the Sentinel had passed to her like a duck to water.

Elizabeth had left to pack some things. Reese had driven off to do...whatever it was he did with enemy combatants. Finch had his suspicions.

Theresa may have been going for nonchalant when she asked the question but her whole presence was one pricked up ear which rather destroyed the effect.

Finch didn’t look up from his laptop, where he was performing coding feats that would put a circus full of contortionists to shame. “I don’t. He’s just a ... an employee.”

“Oh, yeah right,” Theresa’s scorned. “He certainly looked like an employee, what with his being all touchy feely and everything. Very professional.   ”

“He’s a Sentinel; we are Guides,” Finch replied levelly. “I think there might be an evolutionary imperative in there somewhere.”

“Well, I’m a Guide and he sure as hell didn’t look like he was going to rip that guy’s head off for _me_ ,” Theresa was grinning at Finch’s hunched up posture.

Finch decided to ignore this, just like he had been ignoring the memory of the electrifying grace that was John Reese, even when he was smashing someone’s head into the vinyl. He focused on his work; he’d already opened a Cayman account for Elizabeth Whitaker and transferred her savings into it. The tricky bit was backdating it, so it looked like it had been that way for months.

“So what’s the problem?” Theresa persisted. “He’s badass, combat trained, he comes when you call, and he’s _cute_.”

Finch made a face at this. “Cute wouldn’t be the word I would use.” He reached for his sencha green tea and swallowed it down, hoping to account for what he was _sure_ was a flush.

“Alright,” Theresa’s eyes danced with amusement. “How ‘bout smokin’? GQ, Sentinel edition? Red-hot hot? I mean hummina, hummina, huuuummmina. As if you don’t want him to chase you down, pin you up and do all sorts of wicked and delicious things to you.”

Finch choked and by a near margin of error kept from giving his laptop an impromptu shower. Theresa cracked up while he mopped up the mess with spare napkins. Finch guessed it was better this way; Theresa’s face was still stained with tears, and she’s spent the last hour or so swinging wildly between manic and grieving. Not unexpected; she was a young and untrained Guide who had just been through a trauma that lasted two years. Finch was calmly radiating peace while the storm settled in the younger Guide’s mind.

“I am _not_ having this conversation with you,” Finch muttered, knowing his ears were cherry red.  “How old are you, anyway?”

“Oh come on, old enough; besides, I did spend time on the streets. You know, shit happens.”

Finch looked up sharply.

“Not like _that_ ,” Theresa explained hurriedly. “The only guys who even looked at me were the well ... you know, total pervs. They made my skin crawl and I stayed out of their way. But some of the pros weren’t always, you know, discreet about where they met clients. I learned a bunch of stuff they never covered in health class.” She smirked at his discomfited expression. “God, you look like you’re a hundred years old. So what’s the problem? _He_ is clearly interested.”

Finch opened his mouth, shut it, thought about it, and re-opened it to say “There are ... complications. I can’t tell you what they are,” he pre-empted her opening mouth with a raised hand. “But they do exist.”

“Well, for someone who looked that good, I’d be making them real simple, real fast.” Theresa grinned, and then the expression faded. “You really want to, don’t you?” She raised a hand, almost but not quite reaching for him. “You do, I can feel it in here.” She pressed a hand over her heart.

Finch went on typing, stoically. Now to see about selling the house...a small hand closed on his wrist.

“You know, a very smart man told me that I had to trust somebody, sometime.”

Finch blew out a breath. “Yes, I know. But it’s not as simple as just wanting.”

He met Theresa’s compassionate gaze. “I know,” she said, suddenly sounding eons older. “It takes time. But you know what? I think he would wait.” She leaned forward, and didn’t let Finch lean away. “I think he would wait forever.”

The door chimed harshly, breaking into their moment. Elizabeth Whitaker walked in, still glowing.

Finch’s phone pinged while the woman came over and sidled in next to Theresa. He frowned quizzically at Reese’s message and opened a new window on his laptop.

“We’re all packed. I’ve my passport; yours too sweetie,” Elizabeth ruffled Theresa’s hair.

“You kept it?”

“I kept _everything_ , darlin’.”

Theresa, caught between sheer, unexpected warmth and teenager embarrassment mumbled. “I don’t think it’ll still be good though. And...how are we supposed to get out without those goons tracing us?”

“I don’t think,” Finch replied in a slow, strained voice while he stared at the screen. “That they will be a problem anymore.”

\----------------------------------------------------------

 


	9. Chapter Nine: Retreating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's most of the rest; there's still more, but it's not a full chapter...

Chapter Nine: Retreating

 

“Don’t tell me,” Carter said in a resigned, heavy voice. “A guy in a suit.”

The other detective looked surprised. “How’d you know?”

The offices of what once was the business of Landale looked like someone had dropped a bomb, swept it up into a pile and then opened fire on it. There was broken glass, shattered desks. There were filing cabinets upended and tossed like beanbags. There was a photocopier leaking toner from an open wound.

There were pencils, pens and broken rulers stuck into the walls like pins. Carter gave them close scrutiny; they looked too regular to just be tossed there.

“Yeeeah, that’s where the victims were,” the detective on the scene said slowly. His voice betrayed that he saw it, but still couldn’t quite believe it.

Carter frowned. “What, lined up against the wall?”

“Pinned to it. You know, like butterflies.”

Carter turned slowly to stare at the other man.

The detective shrugged. “We took pictures. We took...oh, so many pictures. The victims – if that’s what you can call ‘em – weren’t stabbed or anything. They were just, you know, pinned there; through their sleeves and shit. It’ll cost ‘em a bunch in suits, not health insurance. Not too much health insurance, anyway. Which is fine, since they’ll be spending a lot of their money on lawyers.”

Carter blinked. “They were arrested?”

“You saw the other wall, yeah?”

Oh boy, had she. Across the wall opposite the...well, hanging wall, there were neat rows of copy paper with one huge letter printed per page, spelling out ‘FOR YOU’ in dark red font. Beneath them was a photo of what looked like a family. Forensic techs had already carefully ascertained that on the back of the photo were four names all ending in Whitaker and a number. An NYPD case number.

“Whitaker murder-suicide,” the detective answered the unasked question. “Only now we’re not so sure. The pages of the banner are all papers in a file for some kind of land holding that’s in the Whitaker’s name. Landale was in business with them, sort of. We received an anonymous tip,” here the detective grimaced. “That the Whitakers were actually all murdered by Landale boss, Calhoun. He was one of the guys on the wall. Organised Crimes have been looking into this place for laundering for a while. Looks like they have an excuse to poke around now.”

“Huh,” Carter looked around at the destruction. “I don’t suppose they’re talking about their attacker.”

“Not word one,” the detective shrugged. “Mind you, the geeks have already found some pretty shady stuff going on with their computers, so they’re not real eager to talk to the cops.”

“And the guy in the suit?” Carter sighed, already sensing the answer.

The detective gave an uncomfortable shrug. “In the wind. No video, nada. The only reason we know about the suit guy was a couple of temps that are clean and willing to talk. The guy didn’t hurt them, just locked them in a closet, but they didn’t get a real good look past the sunglasses and hat.”

Carter slumped. The only reason she was here was she put out feelers to all the precincts, asking for any unusual activity involving violence but no death. A radio car had directed her here; no wonder the uniforms were choking down laughter. It must have been a hell of a sight, walking in and finding a row of suits tacked to a wall.

She looked over at the other detective; a big man who was constantly shifting on his feet and seemed to view and re-view the crime scene, willing it to make sense. She couldn’t blame him. “Well, thanks for the look-in Detective...”

He jerked out of his contemplation. “Fusco, Lionel Fusco,” he shook her hand. “Sorry, it’s been a...weird day.”

“Tell me about it,” Carter agreed. “Hey, ouch,” she looked at the detective’s hand, which showed some serious bruising that was just starting to show. “That looks painful.”

He gave a wan smile. “Yeah. My son leaned on the car door and closed it on me at the wrong moment. It’ll heal.”

Of course, Fusco added in his panicking mind, if I can’t get the OC boys to buy this story, whatever the guy in a suit did to him next...wouldn’t.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 Finch hadn’t run away.

Well, he hadn’t. Running wasn’t an activity that featured on his possible list these days for one thing. And the other was ... Reese was busy ferrying the Whitakers to a second hard car dealership to buy a pickup with cash and then run for their lives and freedom across the Canadian border.

He’d sauntered into the diner an hour after the others had gathered, looking no worse for wear but Finch wasn’t fooled by _that_. Not with that glowing, sated air around him that clearly stated he’d found a way to let off some steam.

Derek Whitaker was dead – Theresa and Elizabeth had taken the news solemnly – and his crooked partners were now no longer in the least concerned with the Whitakers, as long as there was no testifying of any kind. The land holdings paperwork was now firmly settled in Elizabeth Whitakers luggage and there was a roomful of criminals prepared to now swear blind that they had killed Derek Whitaker because he had signed the land over to his ex-wife instead of going through with the agreed deal. It would mean there was still uncertainty over the Whitaker family deaths which might get them out of prison early, and the remaining Whitakers were free to run as long as they promised to hold up their end and keep their mouths shut.

It was a rough trade. If Theresa hadn’t been a Guide there wouldn’t have been one; but the concern was for the quality of her life rather than the quantity now, and the truth was a small price to pay.

Consolation prizes, Finch thought gloomily. In the end, it was all consolation prizes. But at least they were all still alive to get them, so it counted.

Finch had taken the opportunity to slip away while Reese had mopped up the final details. It was worrying how he’d sensed how pained the day had left his Guide, and had taken on the extra duty without even asking Finch to stay in sight.

Worrying because it seemed to indicate Reese would know where to find him next. It could be more trackers – Finch hoped it was more trackers. He knew technology, could _deal_ with technology.

He knew almost nothing of Sentinel bonding. He couldn’t undo a _bond_.

He was an aching, exhausted wreck even by his own vast standards. His shields were tattered and more holed than lace. His body was a like a cage trap for pain. And Reese would not, would not, would _not_ leave his mind, leave him in peace.

For the sake of his health and sanity, Finch called up his masseur and asked for an appointment.

Well, the man wasn’t _his_ masseur; any staff that worked for him had a high turnover – a necessary evil in order to maintain his anonymity. The masseur was assigned to him as part of Harold Wren’s private health insurance and, for the amount Wren paid, discretion was the order of the day. He could go into the private clinic and no one would even think to ask anything more personal than a credit card number.

Finch was so tired that he slipped into a half doze while shirtless on the massage table and was bought abruptly awake when the presence of his regular masseur abruptly vanished from the edge of his awareness.

Finch sighed, as another presence eclipsed everything else. He couldn’t even work up enough energy to be surprised.

Still, it didn’t stop him from commenting waspishly. “Was it really necessary to knock out the young man, Mr Reese?”

Finch could actually feel the Sentinel smirk. “He’ll be fine.”

“Not what I asked.” Finch couldn’t actually see the other man, because he was still face down on the table. There hadn’t been enough time to get up and off the damn thing before Reese entered the room. If he were to try now, it would take quite a long series of manoeuvres to get upright and by the end of it he would have no dignity to speak of. Finch could stand that. Some days all he had was dignity. Or in this case, a semi-dignity comprised of trying to track the Sentinel out of the corner of his eye since he couldn’t turn his head.

There was the clink of something glassy hitting the side table which gave Finch a moment’s pause. He _had_ done his research on John Reese and lots of it. The man was a skilled interrogator, one of the very, very best. His Sentinel abilities only enhanced what was a very meticulously built skill set.

Callused fingertips ran down Finch’s bare, twisted up spine. “ _Relax_ , Finch,” the voice was a rumble and far too close to Finch’s ear. “If you know anything about me then you _know_ I’m not going to hurt you.”

There was that. And, damn him, Finch did know that, all the way to his misshapen bones. He was totally vulnerable before a man who know more ways to kill than Finch knew how to code, but Finch wasn’t panicking, he wasn’t shaking. Cursed evolution; his trust in a Sentinel was pretty much written on his DNA.

The warmth of those hands departed briefly and various things clinked and whispered outside of Finch’s limited range of sight. The hands returned slicked and a pair of thumbs started circling the notch of his spine where his shoulder bones branched off, working light and gentle as they mapped out the scars there.

“When did you last have one of these?” Reese murmured as he gentle mapped the ravaged battlefield that was the Guide’s body. “You’ve got knots here like stone.”

“Titanium, Mr Reese,” Finch grunted, too busy wondering why Reese wasn’t asking. “Like titanium.” There was no point whatsoever to trying to conceal that. The Sentinel’s fingers were more than sensitive enough to map the scaffolding that ensured Finch could still walk.

The contemplative little ‘hmmm’ was the only reply to that as Reese’s fingers gently probed and circled on his skin. The silence continued for quite some time, which needled Finch. He knew the Sentinel was trying to get him to fill it – _that_ was the simplest questioning technique of all – and the insult of that was compounded by the fact that Finch could sense no anticipation, no calculation from the other man, only care. That was far more disarming than anything physical could have been.

“The Whitakers should be fine now; Landale has got bigger fish to fry,” Reese murmured quietly as his fingers did something that was most likely illegal but very, very effective to the tension in Finch’s mid-back.

Finch muffled a groan in a slow exhale. “Yes. I saw the picture.” Was his flat reply. He’d seen the picture alright and had flushed when he did, to his own disgruntlement. “No doubt you think that men in suits pinned to a wall was a grand romantic gesture.”

“You didn’t like it?” the voice was playful as those wonderful, wonderful hands started on his lower back, gently working around the shattered, screaming nerve endings as only a Sentinel’s tactile sense could. Reese was so good at this you could believe he had missed his calling; no one this good should callus their hands on gun grips.

Finch had to take a moment to reorganise his brain. “I admit that the dating scene and I have been on an extended hiatus...” what was _wrong_ with his head? The little personal fact simply came out, unchecked as the tension poured out of him. “But I believe a dozen red roses are still acceptable.”

 Reese’s hands ran up and down his back, a soft breath of a laugh breezed past his hair. Too close. “I’m not what you’d call a traditionalist, Finch. Unless you want roses.” Finch felt the Sentinels lips actually brush his ear. “Do you want roses, Finch?”

“I want...” the words came out on a breath of shock that speared right through him. _I want you, all of you but I can’t, I can’t have you, not after..._ Finch focused. “I want you to take no for an answer, Mr Reese.” Dignity be damned, he had to get out of here.

He tried to slide his arms painfully up to lever himself upright in preparation for the inevitable flailing that was going to follow as he forced his wounded body to move. Before he could, though, Reese sighed, accessed the table controls and had Finch upright and sitting on the bench about ten times faster than Finch could have managed alone – somewhat galling, but it took some of the potential farce out of the whole thing for which Finch could only be grateful.

Once settled with his dignity intact, Finch silently watched as Reese packed up his gear. He actually bought his own oil, Finch noticed. Now that was planning.

“Finch,” the man bent slightly so Finch had to look him in the eye. Reese searched his face and then stated. “I’d take no for an answer; I’d always take no for an answer, but only if I was totally sure that no _was_ the answer. And when you look at me, I don’t see a no.”

Finch looked away. He didn’t have an answer for that. It was true. “It would be better for you to leave this alone, Mr Reese. You have earned...you _deserve_ a respite which you will never find with me.”

Large hands framed his face. “I haven’t worked out where you get this list of people in trouble from,” Reese held his eye. “And I don’t know how you’ve escaped the Centre so long. But being alone, surrounded by enemies and no one to turn to? I understand that just fine. Looking at what they _did_ to you,” there was a slight snarl on the words. “I get why you can’t afford to leave yourself vulnerable to betrayals of trust. But Finch,” he leaned forward. “I once tried to protect people I loved by pushing them as far from me as possible. If you know everything about me, then you know how well that worked out. I’m _here_ , Finch. I’m willing to help, I _want_ to help. Fuck respite; respite has no meaning. Respite ends in a bottle.”

Finch screwed his eyes shut, trying desperately to find any hint of deception behind the words but he knew there was none there, none at all. It was heartbreaking, because he wanted this so badly but life had taught its lessons to Finch. The minute he actually wanted was the minute the object was gone. “What if...” Finch choked on the words. He wanted to take them back, but he couldn’t. The Sentinel was standing before him, declaring himself totally within Finch’s power and if Finch was going to break him then at the very least he deserved the truth. Finch forced himself to speak. “What if Jessica was on my ... list?”

Reese’s eyebrow shot skywards.

Finch persisted doggedly. “What if she was on my list and I ignored it? I could have saved her,” Finch wanted to stop, he wanted to, because Reese had gone white. “And I...I didn’t.”

\------------------------------------------------------

_Location: New York City_

_Cam: 005_

_It had been hard. The processes had been astronomically complicated and the NSA was already chomping at the bit, ready to misuse it._

_He was exhausted. The city had healed, insofar as these things heal, but the scars were jagged and thick, and not always beneficial._

_The Machine was...perfect._

_“This is wrong. We can’t just...” Nathan began._

_“We can,” he pushed his glasses up his nose. “We are. We must.” He looked at the screens, so many screen now, the faces on them accusing. In his head at least. He turned his face away._

_“We can’t just let innocent people die!” Nathan argued, aghast._

_His fingernails bit into the desk, his teeth clenched. It had been a long, long,_ long _few years. Fitzy was gone, like so many other talented people, sucked into the Centre and used up. Everyday he had worked to lose himself in the code, so disregard the raw scrape of the emotions sliding through him. His heart felt like mincemeat._

_“Nathan,” he took a breath, willing himself not to yell. “The NSA are interested in terrorists, that’s all. If we deliver the wrong results the whole thing gets shut down. All that work will be for nothing, do you understand? The city will never be safe.” The tribe will never be safe._

_Did Nathan think he hadn’t_ thought _about this? In the small hours of the night, in the long hours of the day, didn’t he know that this was hovering around him, worrying at him like some wild thing?_

_“It’s already not safe!” Nathan relentlessly hammered at the flaw. “Those people aren’t safe.”_

_He began slamming monitors closed. He couldn’t stand this. “The only reason this works is if we can deliver the results that were asked for. Everything else is...irrelevant.”_

_“Irrelevant?!”_

_“We can either save somebody, or we can save everybody!” It came out a yell. “We can’t have both! Do you understand? I can prevent the effect from the cause but I can’t wave my hands and remove violence from the human condition, alright? There will always be death, people are people. So we can save one person from one act that will be repeated separately again and again throughout history or we can save a thousand from a series of them and maybe stop perpetrators in their tracks. The numbers all add up!” He slammed the last monitor closed and the woman there faded from view. He tried to put her out of his mind’s eye._

_Nathan stared at him. “We need to get you a Sentinel.” He said flatly._

_“What?” he stared at his friend, open mouthed. Not once had Nathan ever even hinted at such a thing, especially not after Fitzy had departed. It was like the world had shifted beneath his feet, leaving him reeling._

_“You’re...look, you’re not doing well with this, okay? I mean, you barely have a social life, you work seven days at fourteen hours, you barely sleep.”_

_“I’ve always worked hard.” He snapped, defensive. Inside he was beginning to shake. If Nathan tried to help him with this, the Centre would eventually notice. “And I have Grace. And...and you.” The words came out a bare whisper, because suddenly he was terrified._

_Nathan bit his lip. “Look, I’m not proposing we go take a trip to the Centre, okay? But...the guy I knew in college wouldn’t have thought of any life as irrelevant. That guy ... that guy isn’t standing here. Or...he is, but he’s so exhausted that his mind is derailed.”_

_That hurt. That hurt more than anything else. “Nathan,” he said wearily. “Don’t you think I know this? Do you think that it doesn’t make me sick to my stomach? I can_ feel _people dying. I will have to live with that, always, because...people are people. If I can keep the maximum of people from dying violently, then, well, maybe so many young people won’t be pulled online unawares and then maybe Guides will start being treated like they’re more than fragile mental patients. Do you understand? But the only reason the Machine works is if people don’t know about it. In a room full of Sentinels? Someone will figure this out. All of it will be for nothing. All of it Nathan.” He looked his friend in the eye. “And no one will be safe. They are my tribe, you know. I understand what that means better than you.”_

_Nathan looked over the closed laptops, resigned. “There must be something we can do.”_

_“We’re already doing it. We’re saving everybody. Not somebody.”_

_\-------------------------------------------------------------_

Reese picked up his bag, and left.

There was a mirror in the treatment room; a small one over the sink. Finch looked into it, and then looked away.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 


End file.
